The Death of Grass

by John Christopher

  The girl stared silently. Olivia said to John:

  ‘You can wait outside. I’ll help her dress. We shall only be a couple of minutes.’

  John shrugged. ‘I’ll go downstairs and see that everything’s ready. A couple of minutes, remember.’

  ‘We’ll be down,’ Olivia said.

  In the living-room, John found Roger fiddling with the controls of a radio that stood on the sideboard. He looked up as John came down the stairs.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried North, Scotland, Midland, London – nothing at all.’

  ‘Ireland?’ John asked.

  ‘Nothing I can hear. I doubt if you could pick them up from here anyway.’

  ‘Perhaps the set’s dead.’

  ‘I found one station. I don’t know what the language was – it sounded Middle European. Sounded pretty desperate, too.’

  ‘Short waves?’

  ‘Haven’t tried.’

  ‘I’ll have a go.’ Roger stood aside, and John switched down to the short wave band, and began to fan the dial, slowly and carefully. He covered three-quarters of the dial without finding anything; then he picked up a voice, distorted by crackle and fading, but speaking English. He tuned it in to its maximum, and gave it all the volume he could:

  ‘… fragmentary, but all the evidence indicates that Western Europe has ceased to exist as a part of the civilized world.’

  The accent was American. John said softly:

  ‘So that beautiful banner yet waves.’

  ‘Numbers of airplanes,’ the voice continued, ‘have been arriving during last evening in parts of the United States and Canada. By the President’s order, the people in them have been given sanctuary. The President of France and senior members of the French Government, and the Dutch and Belgian Royal families are amongst those who have entered this country. It is reported from Halifax, Nova Scotia, that the British Royal family and Government have arrived there safely. According to the same report, the last Prime Minister of Great Britain, Raymond Welling, has said that the startling speed of the breakdown which has taken place there was largely due to the spread of rumours that major population centres were to be atom-bombed as a means of saving the rest of the country. These rumours, Welling claims, were entirely unfounded, but caused panic nevertheless. When told that the Atomic Energy Commission here had reported atomic-bomb explosions as occurring in Europe during the past few hours, Welling stated that he could not account for them, but thought it possible that isolated Air Force elements might have used such desperate measures in the hope of regaining control.’

  Roger said: ‘So it got out of hand, and he threw it up and ran.’

  ‘One of the unsolved mysteries,’ John said.

  The voice went on: ‘The following statement, signed by the President, was issued in Washington at nine p.m.

  ‘“It is to be expected that this country will mourn the loss to barbarism of Europe, the cradle of our Western civilization. We cannot help being grieved and shocked by what is taking place on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. At the same time, this does not mean that there is the slightest danger of a similar catastrophe occurring here. Our food-stocks are high, and though it is probable that rations will have to be reduced in the coming months, there will be ample food for all. In the fullness of time, we shall defeat the Chung-Li virus and go out to reclaim the wide world that once we knew. Until then, our duty is to preserve within the limits of our own nation the heritage of man’s greatness.”’

  John said bitterly: ‘That’s encouraging, anyway.’

  He turned to see Olivia coming down the stairs with the girl. Now that she was dressed, he saw that she was two or three years older than Mary, a country girl, more distinguished by health than good looks. She looked from John’s face to the stains on the floor, and back again; but her face did not show anything.

  Olivia said: ‘This is Jane. She’s coming with us. We’re all ready now, Johnny.’

  John said: ‘Good. Then we’ll push off.’

  The girl turned to Olivia. ‘Before I go – could I see them, just the once?’

  Olivia looked uncertain. John thought of the two bodies, crammed in, without ceremony or compunction, beneath the stairs on which the girl now stood.

  He said sharply: ‘No. It wouldn’t do you or them any good, and we haven’t got the time.’

  He thought she might protest, but when Olivia urged her forward gently, she came. She looked once round the living-room, and walked out into the open.

  ‘O.K.’ John said, ‘we’re off.’

  ‘One minor item,’ Pirrie said. The voice on the radio was still talking, falling towards and away from them on periodic swells of volume. It was outlining some new regulation against food hoarding. Pirrie walked over to the sideboard and, in a single movement, swept the radio on to the wooden floor. It fell with a splintering of glass. With deliberate movements, Pirrie kicked it until the cabinet was shattered and the broken fittings displayed. He put his heel solidly down on to the tangle of glass and metal, and mashed it into ruin. Then, extricating his foot with care, he went out with the rest.

  Their journey, owing to the presence of the children, would have to be by fairly easy stages. John had planned for three days; the first march to take them to the end of Wensleydale, the second over the moors to a point north of Sedbergh, and the third, at last, to Blind Gill. It would be necessary to keep close to the main road, and he hoped that for long periods it would be possible to travel on it. He thought it was unlikely there would be any cars about. By now, Masham’s example must have been followed in most of the North Riding. The cars would bog down long before they got to the Dale.

  Roger said to him, as they made their way down by the side of a wood in the direction of Coverham:

  ‘We could get hold of bicycles. What do you think?’

  John shook his head. ‘We would still be too vulnerable. And we should have to find ten bicycles together – otherwise it would mean having to wheel some along, or else splitting up the party.’

  ‘And you’re not going to do that, are you?’ Roger asked.

  John glanced at him. ‘No. I’m not going to do that.’

  Roger said: ‘I’m glad Olivia was able to persuade the girl to come with us. It would have been grim to think of her back there.’

  ‘You’re getting sentimental, Rodge.’

  ‘No.’ Roger hitched his pack more firmly on to the middle of his back. ‘You’re toughening up. It’s a good thing, I suppose.’

  ‘Only suppose?’

  ‘No. You’re right, Johnny. It’s got to be done. We’re going to make it?’

  ‘We’re going to make it.’

  The houses they passed were closed and shuttered; if people still lived in them they were giving no external sign of occupancy. They saw fewer people even than would have been normal in these parts; and when they did encounter others, there was no attempt at greeting on either side. For the most part, the people they met gave ground before the little party, and detoured round them. But twice they saw bands similar to their own. The first of these was of five adults, with two small children being carried. The two parties stared at each other briefly from a distance, and went their separate ways.

  The second group was bigger than their own. There were about a dozen people in it, all adults, and several guns were in evidence. This encounter happened in the afternoon, a few miles east of Aysgarth. Apparently this group was crossing the road on their way south to Bishopdale. They halted on the road, surveying the approach of John and the others.

  John motioned his own group to a stop, about twenty yards away from them. There was a pause of observation. Then one of the men who faced them called:

  ‘Where are ye from?’

  John said: ‘London.’

  There was a ripple of hostile interest. Their leader said:

  ‘There’s little enough to be got in these parts for those who live here, without Londoners coming up scavenging.’

&n
bsp; John made no reply. He hefted his shot-gun up under his arm, and Roger and Pirrie followed suit. They stared at the other group in silence.

  ‘Where are ye making for?’ the man asked them.

  ‘We’re going over the moors,’ John said, ‘into Westmorland.’

  ‘There’ll be nought more there than there is here.’ His gaze was on the guns, longingly. ‘If you can use those weapons, we might be willing to have you join up with us.’

  ‘We can use them,’ John said. ‘But we prefer to stay on our own.’

  ‘Safety in numbers these days.’ John did not reply. ‘Safer for the kiddies, and all.’

  ‘We can look after them,’ John said.

  The man shrugged. He gestured to his followers, and they began to move off the road in their original direction. He himself prepared to follow them. At the road’s edge, he paused, and turned back.

  ‘Hey, mister!’ he called. ‘Any news?’

  It was Roger who replied: ‘None, but that the world’s grown honest.’

  The man’s face cracked into a laugh. ‘Ay, that’s good. Then is doomsday near!’

  They watched until the group was nearly out of sight, and then continued their journey.

  They skirted to the south of Aysgarth, which showed the signs of defensive array that had now become familiar. They rested, in the afternoon’s heat, within sight of the town. The valley, which had been so green in the old days, now showed predominantly black against the browner hills beyond. The stone walls wound their way up the hillsides, marking boundaries grown meaningless. Once John thought he saw sheep on the hillside, and jumped to his feet to make sure. But they were only white boulders. There could be no sheep here now. The Chung-Li virus had done its work with all-embracing thoroughness.

  Mary was sitting with Olivia and the girl Jane. The boys, for once too tired to skylark, were resting together and discussing, so far as John could judge from the scraps of conversation he picked up, motor speedboats. Ann sat by herself, under a tree. He went over and sat down beside her.

  ‘Are you feeling any better?’ he asked her.

  ‘I’m all right.’

  She looked tired, and he wondered how much sleep she had managed to get the night before. He said:

  ‘Only two more days of this, and then…’

  She caught his words up. ‘And then everything’s fine again, and we can forget all that’s happened, and start life all over from the beginning. Well?’

  ‘No. I don’t suppose we can. Does it matter? But we can live what passes for a decent life again, and watch the children grow up into human beings instead of savages. That’s worth doing a lot for.’

  ‘And you’re doing it, aren’t you? The world on your shoulders.’

  He said softly: ‘We’ve been very lucky so far. It may not seem like that, but it’s true. Lucky in getting away from London, and lucky in getting as far north as this before we ran into serious trouble. The reason this place looks deserted is because the locals have retired behind their defences, and the mobs haven’t arrived. But I shouldn’t think we’re more than a day’s march ahead of the mobs – we may be less. And when they come…’

  He stared at the tumbling waters of the Ure. It was a sunlit summer scene, strange only in the absence of so much of the familiar green. He didn’t really believe the implications of his own words, and yet he knew they were true.

  ‘We shall be at peace in Blind Gill,’ Ann said wearily.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind being there now,’ John said.

  ‘I’m tired,’ Ann said. ‘I don’t want to talk – about that or anything else. Let me be, John.’

  He looked down at her for a moment, and then went away. As he did so, he saw that, from under the next tree, Millicent was watching them. She caught his eye, and smiled.

  The valley narrowed towards Hawes, and the hills on either side rose more steeply; the stone walls no longer reached up to their summits. Hawes did not appear to be defended, but they avoided it all the same, going round on the higher ground to the south and fording the tributaries of the Ure, fortunately shallow at this time of year.

  They made camp for the night in the mouth of Widdale Gill securing themselves in the angle between the railway line and the river. Fairly near them they found a field that had been planted with potatoes, and dug up a good supply. Olivia made a stew of these and the salt meat they carried; Jane helped her and Millicent gave some half-hearted assistance.

  The sun had set behind the Pennines, but it was still quite light; John looked at his watch and saw that it wasn’t yet eight o’clock. Of course, that was British Summer Time, not Greenwich. He smiled at the thought of that delicate and ridiculous distinction.

  They had done well, and the boys were not too obviously fatigued. Normally he might have taken them further before halting, but it would be stupid to begin the climb up into Mossdale in such circumstances. Instead, they could make an early start the following morning. He watched the preparations for supper with a contented eye. Pirrie was on guard beside the railway line.

  The boys came over to him together. It was Davey who spoke; he used a tone of deference quite unlike his old man-to-man approach.

  ‘Daddy,’ he said, ‘can we stand guard tonight as well?’

  John surveyed them: the alert figure of his son, Spooks’s gangling lankiness, Steve’s rather square shortness. They were still just schoolboys, out on a more puzzling and exciting lark than usual.

  He shook his head. ‘Thanks very much for the offer, but we can manage.’

  Davey said: ‘But we’ve been working it out. It doesn’t matter that we can’t shoot properly as long as we can keep awake and make a noise if we see anyone. We can do that.’

  John said: ‘The best thing you three can do is not to stay awake talking after supper. Get to sleep as quickly as possible. We’re up early in the morning, and we’ve got a stiff climb and a long day to face.’

  He had spoken lightly enough, and in the old days Davey would have argued strenuously on the point. Now he only glanced at the other two boys in resignation, and they went off together to look at the river.

  They all had supper together, Pirrie having come down from the line with a report of emptiness as far as the eye could see. Afterwards, John appointed the hours of sentry duty for the night.

  Roger said: ‘You’re not counting Jane in?’

  He thought Roger was joking at first, and laughed. Then he saw, to his astonishment, that it had been a serious question.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not tonight.’

  The girl was sitting close to Olivia; she had not strayed far from her all day. John had heard them talking together during the afternoon, and had heard Jane laughing once. She glanced up at the two men, her fresh, somewhat fat-cheeked face open and inquiring.

  ‘You wouldn’t murder us in our beds, would you, Jane?’ Roger asked her.

  She shook her head solemnly.

  John said to her: ‘Well, it’s best not to give you the chance, isn’t it?’

  She turned away, but it was in embarrassment, he saw, not hatred.

  He said: ‘It’s Ann’s first watch. The rest of us had better get down and get to sleep. You boys can put the fire out – tread out all the embers.’

  Roger woke him, and handed him the shot-gun which the sentry kept. He got to his feet, feeling stiff, and rubbed his legs with his hands. The moon was up; its light gleamed on the nearby river, and threw shadows from the small group of huddled figures.

  ‘Seasonably warm,’ Roger said, ‘thank God.’

  ‘Anything to report?’

  ‘What would there be, but ghosts?’

  ‘Any ghosts, then?’

  ‘A brief trace of one apparition – the corniest of them all.’ John looked at him. ‘The ghost train. I thought I heard it hooting in the distance, and for about ten minutes afterwards I could have sworn I heard its distant roar.’

  ‘Could be a train,’ John said. ‘If there are any capable of being manned, and a
nyone capable of manning one, they might try a night journey. But I think it’s a bit unlikely, taken all round.’

  ‘I prefer to think of it as a ghost train. Heavily laden with the substantial ghosts of Dalesmen going to market, or trucks of ghostly coal or insubstantial metal ingots, crossing the Pennines. I’ve been thinking – how long do you think railway lines will be recognizable as railway lines? Twenty years – thirty? And how long will people remember that there were such things, once upon a time? Shall we tell fairy stories to our great-grandchildren about the metal monsters that ate coal and breathed out smoke?’

  ‘Go to sleep,’ John said. ‘There’ll be time enough to think about your great-grandchildren.’

  ‘Ghosts,’ Roger said. ‘I see ghosts all round me tonight. The ghosts of my remote descendants, painted with woad.’

  John made no reply, but climbed up the embankment to his post on the line. When he looked back from the top, Roger was curled up, and to all intents asleep.

  The sentry’s duty was to keep both sides of the line under observation, but the far side – the north – was more important owing to the fact that the main road lay in that direction. That was the sentry’s actual post, out of direct sight of the group of sleepers. John took up his position there. He lit a cigarette, guarding the glowing end against possible observation. He didn’t really think it was necessary, but it was natural to adapt old army tricks to a situation with so many familiar elements.

  He looked at the small white cylinder, cupped in his hand. There was a habit that would have to go, but there was no point in ending it before necessity ended it for him. How long, he wondered, before the exploring Americans land at the forgotten harbours and push inland, handing out canned ham and cigars, and scattering Chung-Li immune grass seed on their way? In every little outpost, like Blind Gill, where the remnants of the British held out, something like that would be the common daydream, the winter’s tale. A legend, perhaps, that might spur the new barbarians at last across the western ocean, to find a land as rough and brutal as their own.