The Standing Water (8 page)

‘It’s me, Ryan!’

‘I’ve gone blind! I’m
blind forever – because my bloody brother lobbed that ice-ball at me!’

I looked into his
face. His eyes – under a dusting of ice and snow – were indeed screwed shut.

‘It’s all gone
black! All black forever – and it’s all my brother’s fault!’

Acting from some
strange instinct, I rubbed my hands together, jerking them until all the cold
was gone, until the space between them hummed with a dry heat. I placed my
palms over Jonathon’s eyes.

‘I could kill him –
blind because of my bloody brother!’

I pressed my hands onto
his lids, felt tiny trickles.

‘Try to open them
now,’ I said.

He tried to blink;
the lids stayed shut; he blinked again; they sprang apart. I took my hands
away.

‘OK now?’

Jonathon blinked
some more; his eyes widened – they stared, like it was the first time they’d seen
snow, the school, Emberfield’s flat landscape.

‘Phew!’ Jonathon
said. ‘Glad I’m not really blind!’

‘Jonathon, what’s
being blind like?’

‘Everything’s just
black, but not normal black – really, really black: blacker than any black
you’ve ever seen! Anyway, what happened to you?’

I described my
shove into the snow, nearly drowning in that cold white and only being saved
after my plea to Marcus.

‘See!’ I said. ‘Marcus
is
there! Maybe he can do less when he’s frozen, but he
does
listen to us! Good job we gave him those sweets! And come to think of it, when
I was being whacked I promised him more stuff and the whacking stopped soon
after!’

‘Yeah,’ said
Jonathon. ‘Wonder if he could do owt to protect me from my brother! We need pro-tect-ion
from idiots like him. Sounds like those lads could have killed you in that
snow. Maybe something like that happened to Marcus and Lucy!’

Break ended and we formed
three lines, one for each class, at the foot of the steps. The snow was coming
down so heavily that Weirton’s huge dark-suited form at their top was wrapped
in veils of white. It was then it struck me how easily he could have noticed
our rumpus on the field, heard our yells, come pacing over to see the
disgraceful sight of the mound of struggling boys pressing me into the snow. What
could have happened then – one of the mass whackings we’d heard of in legends:
a whole morning of Weirton thrashing the guilty in front of all the kids in the
hall? My relief surged out on a long breath. I guessed the side of the school
building must have flanked us, our cries, shouts, insults merged into the
general tumult of the kids enjoying the snow. Through the swirls of flakes, I
saw Weirton bring his vast head down. As usual, the upper juniors filed in
first. The brother and Darren Hill tried to punch me as they went by – I
slapped their hands away. Our class was the next to go in. As we mounted the
steps, I battled to make my unsteady legs walk normally, prayed Weirton
wouldn’t notice the agitated look I couldn’t expel from my still glowing face.
My heart thudded as I walked past the teacher, felt the weight of his gaze
bearing down from so far above, but Weirton didn’t say anything. Still shaking,
I fumbled off my coat and gloves in the humid shoving chaos of the cloakroom.
Though I staggered down the corridor, my classmates were walking with a joyful bounce,
knowing the next lesson would be different. Entering our room, we saw a man
standing next to Perkins. He was tall; a kindly face twitched and pondered
beneath a bald head bordered by unruly spirals of grey hair. He wore black
trousers and shirt, but – something I never understood – rather than the long
ties Weirton and my dad sported, his neck was ringed by what looked like a
strip of cardboard. Someone had told me that was what priests always wore
though I couldn’t see why – none of the pictures of Jesus showed him wearing
one. I’d thought of making one for myself by cutting up an old cereal packet,
but had guessed Weirton’s reaction wouldn’t be favourable.

The vicar stood and
beamed, glancing from side to side as we all came in, peering through his thick
glasses which – rather than Weirton’s TV screens – were somewhat rounded.
Though he looked nice and kind, I’d have never wanted to offend or annoy him as
I’d heard his magic was mighty. I’d heard a legend that – when he put the bread
and wine on the altar – he had the power to summon the Lord himself to fly down
to our little church, and that – by mumbling the right words and with swift
movements of his enchanter’s hands – he could even change the humble bread into
the body of Christ and the wine into His blood! I’d also heard he was the
guardian of that dread altar – that no one could approach it without his say-so
and that if anyone was rash enough to blunder into its sacred space, God would
shoot a thunderbolt from heaven to burn the insolent sinner up. I wasn’t
surprised the vicar had no problems in our class with rowdiness. Even Dennis
Stubbs was well-behaved.

When we’d all sat
down, Weirton strode in. He smiled, gave the vicar a couple of hearty claps on
the back, causing the vicar’s head and chest to jerk forward. I think Weirton
was being friendly, but the vicar first spluttered with shock then a frown
flickered over his face. Maybe he was annoyed at Weirton touching his sacred
black garments. I didn’t know how Weirton dared to, but maybe God made
allowances for headmasters. After all, Weirton had rapped and prodded Lucy’s
bones with no apparent fear of her ghost or dread of God’s anger. Thinking of
Lucy, I wondered if I should ask the vicar why he’d permitted her not to be
buried. Perhaps he’d been content to simply bless her store cupboard. I thought
maybe I’d ask the priest about it after class.

‘Children!’ Weirton
declared. ‘It is time for your second class with the vicar. You’re very lucky
to have lessons from a traditional vicar like ours – he’ll teach you good
biblical basics that will stand you in good stead for the rest of your lives
and beyond, no trendy rot …’

I didn’t understand
all the teacher had said, but Weirton smiled at, flicked his eyes to the vicar.
The vicar grinned back – but his lips quivered as if making that grin needed
effort.

‘So listen, listen
carefully to what he says. And – of course – any insolence, any idleness, any
lack of attention will be dealt with by me! I think you know what I mean – I’m
sure you all remember the episode with Ryan Watson this morning!’

The vicar’s face
twitched into a pained expression as I was mentioned. I cursed Weirton, hoping
the priest wouldn’t now look unfavourably on me: I didn’t want to get on the
wrong side of a man with such mighty powers. Weirton lowered his rigid crown of
hair in a nod – that hair still iron-hard despite the hundreds of flakes that
must have fallen on it – and Weirton and Perkins left us with the priest. The
vicar strode across the front of the class a few times, but his strides weren’t
like Weirton’s – they were slow, thoughtful. The priest bit his lip, scrunched
his brow. His first finger drifted up, his mouth opened as if he was about to begin
– his finger fell, the mouth clamped into tight-lipped uncertainty. He paced
some more, the finger again floated up and the vicar started to speak. The
vicar’s voice was somewhat strained; it had a slight tremble. But I knew the
immense power that modest voice masked.

‘Good morning,
children. In our first class a fortnight ago, we talked about the world’s
creation, about Adam and Eve. Well, today we’ll quickly revise what we learned
and then move onto other parts of Genesis – the first book in God’s Holy
Bible.’

Wasn’t the Bible a
book already? I wondered how other books could fit inside it – wouldn’t their
hard covers get in the way? The vicar went on.

‘Yes, I’m sure you
know some of these stories already – having listened to Mr Weirton or myself in
assembly. But I think it can’t hurt to go through them again. I’ll hand you out
the booklets we started looking at last time.’

And out they came,
the vicar – in his stooped walk – shuffling along to put one on each of our desks.
Turning at the end of my row, he bashed his thigh on the desk of Helen Jacobs,
sending her pens and bright pencils, her neat pencil case tumbling to the
floor. Helen sighed and scowled – luckily for her, this wasn’t noticed by the
vicar. With my still trembling fingers, I leafed through my booklet – there
were drawings of robed and bearded men, desert sands. Those drawings looked
like they’d been expertly shaded with coloured pencils – the outlines all
filled in skilfully with blue, yellow, pink. It was the sort of standard I’d
been getting towards in my own sketching. In a mix of strides and shuffles, the
vicar moved from the back row to the room’s front.

‘So,’ he said, ‘if
you turn to the first page, you’ll see the Garden of Eden, which we mentioned
last time.’

There it was – in
those coloured-pencil pastels: the lovingly shaded ferns and trees, the
sleeping tigers and lions. Adam stood muscular, almost naked; Eve’s rude bits
were covered by a surprisingly large leaf; a sweep of her hair hid her chest.
And on the next page, as Adam slept in the Garden, the wicked serpent coiled
around a tree, whispering to weak Eve.

‘Yes,’ the vicar
said, ‘he’s persuading her to eat of the apple: to eat the fruit of the Tree of
the Knowledge of Good and Evil.’

And there it was – the
apple hanging in shameful dark red, Eve’s hand reaching for it. I thought it
was such a pity she’d bitten that fruit and released all evil into the world.
Without it, Lucy wouldn’t have died; Marcus wouldn’t be trapped in his pond; I
wouldn’t have been walloped by Weirton. Next to me, Jonathon’s hand crept up.

‘Please, Sir, if
there was a Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil in the Garden, are there
trees like that around in the world today?’

The vicar’s face
twitched; his brow tightened; he raised a thoughtful finger to his chin.

‘That’s a very
unusual question, Jonathon,’ he said. ‘What made you ask it?’

‘Well,’ said
Jonathon, ‘I just thought, you know, people have babies and animals have
babies, and even plants and trees have babies, but their babies just come from
seeds and nuts. So why shouldn’t the Tree of Knowledge have had a baby? And its
babies’ babies’ babies could still be living in the world today.’

‘Yeah!’ Stubbs
blurted. ‘If we could find them and eat the fruit, we might know everything!’

‘Yeah!’ Richard
Johnson echoed.

Arms outstretched,
the vicar bobbed flat palms to settle our enthusiasm.

‘I think …’ the
vicar paused, grasped his chin, looked this way and that, swivelled his eyes up
to heaven as if the solution could be found there ‘…  I think the Tree of the
Knowledge of Good and Evil was a very special tree and God made just one, just
to test Adam and Eve and – anyway – it would have probably been killed in the
Flood, which we’ll talk about later …’

‘Anyway, as you
know, after they ate the fruit, God threw Adam and Eve out of their beautiful
Garden and they were never allowed to return. He even ordered cherubs – a kind
of angel – to guard the gate with a flaming sword so no one could get back in.
Also, all suffering, sin and death were introduced into the world. And not just
Adam and Eve were punished, but all their children and their children’s
children and so on – right down to us. That’s, unfortunately, why we must all suffer
and die today.’

Jonathon raised his
hand – this time it shot rather than crept up.

‘Sir, isn’t that a
bit unfair? It’s like if my granddad or great-granddad stole an apple long ago
and Mr Weirton whacked me for it.’

A twinge scrunched
the vicar’s face at Jonathon’s last words. He then went through his
chin-grasping routine before answering.

‘Yes, the whole
Garden of Eden thing was rather unfortunate, wasn’t it? It was all a terrible
mix-up really. If only Satan hadn’t sneaked into the Garden when Adam was
asleep, if only God hadn’t been distracted with something else when the Devil
played his dastardly trick, but, anyway, that’s what happened, at least
according to the Bible, and we all have to live with it. Most unfortunate set
of circumstances, but, anyway, let’s move on …’

We turned the page
of our booklet. A man lay dead on stony ground as a pool of rich blood seeped
from him; another man, with a manic-looking face, stood over him bearing a
knife.

‘Adam and Eve had
two sons,’ the vicar said, ‘called Cain and Abel. Cain was a farmer – he grew crops
like wheat – while Abel was a herdsman, who looked after sheep and goats. One
day they both decided to make a sacrifice to God. Cain put some of what he’d
grown on an altar and burned it, and Abel did the same with some lamb. The
smoke drifted up to heaven where God could smell and taste it. God said He
preferred Abel’s sacrifice and Cain grew jealous – he began to hate his brother
in his heart!’

I could sympathise
with the Lord there – I’d also prefer a nice piece of lamb to a bit of boring
old wheat. I glanced over at Jonathon – who I guessed hated his brother too after
the outrage with the ice-ball. Jonathon was nodding softly – he seemed to
understand Cain.

‘Well, Cain grew to
hate his brother more and more until … well, it was really rather unfortunate,
but … as we see in the picture, Cain murdered his own brother!’

The class gasped –
even Stubbs looked appalled. Jonathon’s lip started to tremble – he bit down on
it.

‘Well, after some
time, God looked down from heaven and He couldn’t see Abel anywhere. He asked
Cain where he was – Cain lied, said he didn’t know: that he wasn’t his
brother’s keeper. But, of course, God soon found out what had happened – “Your
brother’s blood crieth to me from the ground!” He said.’

Jonathon’s lip
shivered more – maybe he was feeling guilty about hoping Marcus would get rid
of his brother. I’d once heard a legend about how a man had killed his brother
– a long, long time ago – and chopped his body up and hidden it in different
parts of a swamp so he couldn’t come alive again. Maybe if Craig really drove
Jonathon mad, he could do something like that – hide the brother’s remains
under the ditches and bogs and dark ponds and black soil of Emberfield. Who
knew – Jonathon might even manage to hoodwink the eyes of God. It had taken the
Lord some time to notice the death of Abel.

‘Well,’ the vicar
was saying, ‘of course, God had to punish Cain after such an outrageous act and
if you look on the next page, you’ll see what God did.’

We turned the page
over. A huge finger stuck out of a cloud, pointing down. It looked like the
finger Weirton often wagged, but this divine digit was unleashing a thunderbolt.
It flew from the sky, smote Cain’s forehead.

‘Yes,’ said the
vicar, ‘Cain received a mark from God as a punishment for his sin.’

I gaped at the
picture; my trembling grew stronger at seeing the sheer might of the Lord.
Cain’s mouth hung; lids wrenched back, his eyes stared at the heavens. In the
next picture, we saw the jagged burn that branded his wicked brow.

‘He could never get
it off,’ the vicar said. ‘Cain had to wander his whole life with the sign of
his sin upon him. Everywhere he went, people saw that mark and knew what God
had done – and no one would have anything to do with him. He became a wanderer
on the earth for the rest of his life – loved by none and shunned by all!’