*
By the time the final school bell rang, Main Street was thronged by workers coming home from the fields. Not a single murmur graced the air. All that was audible was the sound of clanking hoes and dragging boots. The field hands’ drawn, hangdog faces had been made identical by exhaustion and malnutrition, their work-weary eyes never leaving the ground.
Norman reined to a halt, descending from his mount to watch the solemn procession.
He’d made straight for the school after returning from the wilds with Lucian and Allie, not even stopping to stable his mount or deliver his sacks to the storeroom. Now, exhausted and ravenous, all he wanted was to crawl into bed with a loaf of the mill's bread—riddled with sawdust or not.
As the filthy folk passed by, a few glances were sent his way, pleading looks begging him for a word of comfort; forlorn and watchful, lest he’d become the prophet they craved during his few short hours in the wilds.
He could only blink and stare back at them, with shame pressing against the nape of his neck. Even as Sarah passed him, prancing off towards Robert—who stood silhouetted in the kitchen doorway—he remained slumped on his saddle, staring, clinging to the vague hope that his mere presence could buoy up the sullen droves.
He was eventually jarred from his trance by a grating racket.
“What’s all this hush?” shrieked a high-pitched, ancient voice. “At this hour? You should all be home preparin’ for End Day!”
Norman turned to see Agatha standing across the street, waving her cane at the field hands. A hunchbacked old lady with skin like sodden laundry and a face made dull and slack by advanced dementia, she struggled forth. On any other day she was perpetually dazed, always getting lost, but today she seethed with fury.
“It’s our greatest festival, it is. Every year since the End, we’ve celebrated, and I’ll not have a bit o’ hunger see it forgotten.” She stepped forwards and began clawing at elbows as they brushed past. “It’s tradition. Get your heads up from the dirt and smile! Come on, now, dears. ’Tis End Day! Time to remember, to celebrate—”
“Hush your gums, you senile old coot! We’re not celebrating nothing,” exclaimed a sour-faced youth. His skin immediately drained of colour. It was clear that he had spoken before thinking, on impulse alone.
The comment nonetheless earned him a beating to the back of the head by no less than three nearby elders.
Agatha’s face had fallen. Her grey, cataract-ridden eyes widened. “How dare you gab to me like tha’, you little swine! Tomorrow’s all that connects us to what we’ve lost, all tha’ keeps the Old World alive. Are none of you going to take a stand?”
Some sent embarrassed glances her way. Most became only more fixed on the ground. None answered her. The procession sped along, trying to leave the wilted figure in its wake.
Agatha’s protests continued, diminishing with each repetition, until her shoulders slumped and her cane slowly drooped to the ground, defeated.
Then a resounding, steadfast voice rang out over the cobbles, “Mr Singh, how are the pastry cases coming along?”
Norman whirled to see Alexander standing a few yards away.
He strode across the street and laid his hand upon Agatha’s shoulder, then bent over her and whispered a few words that made her giggle like a little girl, looking adoringly into his eyes. Then he called Sarah and Robert from the kitchens and had them lead her home.
She went without a word, her eyes misty and vacant once more.
Once the trio had disappeared, he planted his knuckles on his hips and stared into the depths of the crowd. His eyes had become shards of flint. “Mr Singh?” he called. “The pastry cases?”
A weathered, white-haired man of Middle-Eastern descent answered with a wavering voice, “I have them ready, sir. Baked them firm yesterday evening—”
“Good man. Best get to it if we’re to see the End Day pies good and ready.”
The man jerked, as though struck. “But…but there’s so little food, there is. I’ve heard nothing of any filling, sir. Everyone says there will not be any feast this year…”
But Alex had turned to another face in the crowd. “Mrs Hadley, is your dear father still happy to have his band play for us tomorrow?”
The procession had slowed to a crawl. Startled, watchful looks were being thrown every which way.
A dirt-streaked, mousy woman appeared to shrink under his gaze. “He’s spoken of nothin’ else for days, Misser Alexander. He and the boys have been keepin’ me and the kids up for weeks with all their practissin! But…to be honest wi’ you, sir, I told them to quit it. Said there wasn’t going to be no celebratin’ this year—”
But Alexander had moved on once more. “Master Ishadore,” he cried, eyeing a passing boy of no more than eight years. “I trust you’ve been gathering mushrooms with your classmates, as I requested?”
The boy tittered at being addressed, but answered with pride, “For the last week. We’ve filled my Dad’s shed full. But, sir…the End Day celebrations are cancelled…aren’t they?”
Hundreds of pairs of eyes now turned from the ground just in time to see Alexander break into a good-natured laugh. “Oh, we’d never let a thing like a shortage in spuds scupper the most important day of the year. Now hop to it, all three of you. There’s work to be done!”
Those he’d spoken to jerked, open-mouthed, and then chorused, “Y-Y-Yes, sir, Mr Cain!”
Mr Singh scuttled off at full pelt, dragging his hoe in his wake and parting the crowd ahead with stifled apologies. Close behind him dashed Hadley and young Ishadore. Their harried cries were soon consumed by the growing noise of the crowd, which had come alive.
Alexander watched them go, and then turned his gaze upon the rest. “That goes for all of you. We’ll not let a poor harvest dampen our fair day, will we?”
A few muttered, “No.”
Alex raised his voice, the wide smile still stretched over his cheeks. “A little hunger isn’t going to keep us from celebrating what we’ve done—all we’ve accomplished.”
A few more, “No.”
“We’ll never bow down to what life throws at us. Not this city.”
Almost everybody, louder, “Never!”
“Are we going to forget the faces of those we’ve lost?”
“NO!” they bellowed.
“Then let’s get to it. Hang the bunting, fetch the cider, slaughter the livestock, ready the china.” He clapped his hands together with a deafening boom. “We’ve got a feast to prepare!”
Eyes lit up like lanterns festooned with oil. Morose sniffing had become wide-eyed glee in a single stride. The crowd rounded the corner buzzing with excited mutterings, half-suppressed giggles and a spring in its step.
Norman had watched the Shepherd wield his flock with mounting awe. This is what they expect of me? he thought. What he expects of me? I could never do that—not in a million years.
And yet, despite his admiration, as soon as they were out of sight and Main Street was deserted, his thoughts turned back to the questionable fruits they had picked. He lurched forwards, leading his mount, and pulled Alexander aside. “Alex, we can’t go ahead with the celebrations.” He reached into the sack nearest his reins and pulled out a handful of half-rotted fruit. “What we found today might not do us any good. We’ll be lucky if it’s fit to feed the horses…” Norman stopped, frowning. “Alex?” He wound down to a halt, his argument forgotten.
Alexander wasn’t listening. He stood stock-still, and the plastic smile had fallen slack on his lips. His eyes were focused not on Norman, or the berry-red slush in his outstretched hand, but on the pylon above their heads.
He followed Alexander’s gaze to see a bird perched upon the lines, silhouetted against the sky. A pigeon’s silhouette. “Robert’s been trying to get rid of them for days, but they keep coming back,” he said, glancing between Alexander and the cooing figure. “What’s the matter?”
Alexander’s mouth bobbed without a sound. His cool compo
sure had dissolved, and Norman thought that, for just a moment, he could see fear in his eyes. “We’re not cancelling anything,” he said. He sounded distant, unlike himself. Then he stammered, “I-I have to go.” His hand had risen to his forehead, shielding his eyes. He suddenly seemed disoriented, almost unsteady on his feet. “There’s some business I have to attend to. I’ll find you later.”
He stumbled away, leaving Norman alone on Main Street, baffled, with the pigeon’s shadow bobbing on the cobbles beside him.
Ruin Page 12