Song

by Michelle Jana Chan

  ‘I haven’t heard back. I’m guessing that means I didn’t get in.’

  ‘Bide your time, Song. You don’t know till you know. Any more news from Father Holmes ?’

  ‘That’s one I’m biding my time on, sir.’

  Edward Hoare smiled. ‘You’re more patient than I am. We all wish he’d hurry back. Let me know when you hear.’

  ‘I will.’

  Across the schoolyard, Song saw Josie, her daughters and their younger brother Vivi, who’d grown up a lot since Song had last seen him. He clutched a book in one hand and held a ball in the other. Maia came running over to Song. She had her hair pinned back and looked more like a schoolgirl than ever, less like a daughter of Josie’s bar.

  ‘Do you want to join us ? What with Father Holmes being away and all.’

  Song looked at Jingy. ‘Of course,’ Jingy said. ‘We’d love to. I haven’t been up all night baking for any other reason than getting together and celebrating with everyone.’

  Song was grateful to Maia for including them. ‘Thanks, Maia.’

  ‘Come on, then. Mama’s brought banana cake and all sorts.’

  Song and Jingy joined Maia and her family, along with Jon and his mama and Sonia.

  ‘Any news from the Father ?’ Josie asked.

  ‘Not recently, ma’am. But when I do hear from him I get a bundle of letters all in one go. His mother was poorly, that’s why he’s delayed. He’ll be back soon.’

  ‘You think he’s really coming back ?’ Jon’s mama asked.

  ‘You stopped trusting men a long time ago,’ Josie said. ‘I don’t blame you for that. But rest assured, Father Holmes is coming back.’

  Song was happy to hear Josie sound so confident about the vicar’s return.

  ‘Father Holmes will be proud of you when he gets back,’ she continued. ‘All grown up and graduated. Like I’m proud of you, Maia.’ She tweaked Maia’s ear lobe affectionately. ‘So what you all going to be doing now ? Jon ? You first. What about all those drawings for the governor ? You going to be one of the famous sons of Bartica.’

  ‘I’ve already done those pictures,’ Jon said. He looked across at his mother. ‘I don’t know. I guess I’ll be sticking around for a bit.’

  ‘You got to do what you got to do,’ his mama said.

  ‘Wise words,’ Jingy added. ‘You just see what comes up. Don’t say no to nothing.’

  ‘What about you, Maia ?’ Jon’s mama asked her.

  ‘I’m going to see the world,’ she said, as casually as if she’d announced she was off to buy bread.

  Song would always love Maia. He knew that then.

  Clio snorted. ‘Ridiculous.’

  ‘I believe you, Maia,’ Vivi said. And Song warmed to him, too.

  ‘And you, Song ?’ Josie asked.

  ‘I’m waiting for Father Holmes.’

  ‘Course you are. Aren’t we all ? And when he’s back, what then ?’

  Song hesitated. ‘Upriver. I think I might go upriver.’

  Jon’s mama whistled. ‘Pork-knocker.’

  ‘You let him alone,’ Jingy said. ‘He’ll be doing it his own way, no matter what he chooses.’

  ‘If you go upriver, don’t be gone too long, you hear,’ Maia whispered.

  ‘I won’t,’ Song whispered back. He remembered his first day of school, so nervous and excited at the same time, with Maia doing handstands in the yard. Now, as Josie said, they were all grown up and graduated. For the first time in months, Song allowed himself to feel happy, surrounded by friends who he knew cared about him.

  On his way home Song went to collect the week’s mail. Odd-job Bunny was in front of him talking to Mulay, the clerk.

  ‘Did you hear the Portsmouth’s in ?’ Mulay said.

  Bunny nodded. ‘What it bring ?’

  ‘Don’t you know what that means, fool ?’ Mulay said.

  Bunny looked up from the sorting. ‘Nestlé for me. Lifebuoy for the lady.’

  Mulay rolled his eyes. ‘Fool! It means the Falmouth is lost. They said it sailed months before them. Should’ve been here in March, or April latest. Bottom of the sea. Most all white folk too. Families. Georgetown’s a zoo with all the wailing.’

  Song turned. He felt for the doorframe to steady himself as he moved out of the dark office. It was unbearably bright outside. Like the first time he climbed the ladder behind Li Bai and found himself on deck in the sunlight. Song was taken back again to his passage: the storm churning, the screams, the slamming of the boat against the water, the choking. He had dreamed it. Like a premonition. Like he had known it all along. As if he had brought it upon Father Holmes himself. Mulay’s voice was a noise echoing about Song’s head. He broke into a run and tripped on the edge of the path, sprawling across the gravel. He lay there, pushing his face into the stones. He could not believe it. Would not believe it. He never wanted to get up.

  After the news of the Falmouth’s sinking, Song moved into Josie’s bar. Jingy went looking for him the first night he did not come home. Through his drunken daze he saw her arm swing back. Her hand landed on the side of his face but he barely felt it.

  He soaked himself in liquor the same way he had seen other men do until they hit the floor. He tried his best to forget everything good he had ever known. The instant he came around, he ordered another drink to push away the stink of his own sweat, the stale liquor burning in his throat, the thunder in his head.

  Maia took him one night. She was gentle, as if to give him comfort. Song did not need to pretend he knew anything. He lay on his back half drunk as she moved up and down his body like a slick of oil. She was as soft as Song was hard. He watched the blur of her face above him. Her long dark hair swinging about her shoulders. Her small hands gripping his shoulders as she rocked to and fro. Song’s head was spinning from the drink. He felt a flood of heat between his legs. He could barely breathe. It was as if he was drowning. His voice cracked as he called out her name. Maia collapsed upon him and then rolled off onto the matting.

  Neither moved as they caught their breath. Song drifted. When he came around he reached out for her but she was gone. He put out his other arm to feel for the bottle he had left by the bed but he instead knocked it over and liquor spilled across the floor. He cursed the darkness.

  Hours or days later, Song wasn’t sure which, he saw Jon walk through the door. Song was in the bar, his head resting on its side on a table.

  ‘Song, it’s Jon,’ he heard his friend whisper. ‘I’ve come to get you out of here. I need you to come home with me. Now.’

  Song tried to open his eyes more fully. The light from the open doorway cut into the darkness.

  ‘I got a new book for us. You should see the birds I been seeing. And drawing. There’s nothing written though. You need to do the writing. All I got is lots of pretty pictures. It ain’t a book if there ain’t no writing.’

  Song squinted in the light. He could see Jon’s outline. His throat was dry. ‘I can’t,’ he croaked.

  ‘I didn’t come here just to have a look about the place,’ Jon continued. ‘I could guess how a place like this’d look. I came to fetch you and I’m not leaving ’less we’re leaving together. This whole town seems to be going down without Father Holmes in it. But I’m not letting you be part of that.’

  Song covered his head with his hands as if he was holding his skull together. ‘I need a drink.’

  Jon smashed his fist on the table. Song winced. ‘You know who says that ?’ Jon said. ‘You know who says those very same words, just like you are now ? I’ll tell you. You won’t like it but I’ll tell you. Kiddo. Kiddo says that same damn thing that you’re saying to me now: I need a drink.’

  Song slipped the hand on his head downwards to cover his eyes.

  Jon’s voice softened again. ‘I don’t like it either, Song, but you need to know. You carry on like this, you’ll be no better than any other drunk in this town. I’ve come to get you out. You gotta stand up and walk home with me right now.’
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br />   Song felt Jon’s hand on his shoulder.‘Come with me,’ Jon said.

  Song groaned.

  ‘I’m gonna help you and we’re gonna do it together.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Jon thumped on the table again. But he spoke in a whisper. ‘This is the last thing Father Holmes would have wanted. You know that.’

  Song thought of himself with Father Holmes in the study of the vicarage. It was as if Song could hear their voices now, discussing books, agreeing, disagreeing, laughing together.

  Song let Jon steer him out of the bar. In a strange way, he felt like he was holding the arm of Father Holmes. They passed Vivi playing in the front yard. The little boy stared at Song. There was something about his expression that Song recognised, but he couldn’t place. His young face was full of wariness, even fear, horror. Song hated himself. They continued slowly all the way back to the vicarage.

  Jingy did not say a word as the pair arrived through the front door. Song saw her nod at Jon. Jon took him upstairs, undressed him and put him into bed. Song didn’t know how long he slept. From time to time he reached out for a sip of the sweet black tea Jingy had brought to his bedside.

  Then late one afternoon, he padded down the stairs. Jingy was rinsing rice on the back steps. She barely looked up.

  He crouched beside her and poured some water in a bowl. He wetted a cloth and pressed it against his face before scrubbing behind his neck and ears.

  ‘Make sure you’re whistle-clean before you sit down at my table.’

  Song looked across and nodded.

  ‘There’s lunch when you’re done,’ Jingy said.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Every man’s entitled to lose his way. Takes a while for a boy to become a man. Not my place, nor anyone else’s, to go rushing you.’

  ‘That’s generous. Not sure I deserve it.’

  Song dried himself, fingering the soft fuzz on his face.

  ‘Father Holmes forgot his razor,’ Jingy said. ‘I blame myself for that. It’s beside his washbowl. Since wondered to myself what that man looked like with a beard.’

  Song filled a jug with clean water and climbed the stairs to Father Holmes’ room. He turned the handle and walked in, more boldly than the last time. But a year on and the room still smelled of his shirts and polished leather. Song felt it like a blow to the head.

  Beside the ceramic bowl at the window was Father Holmes’ shaving kit, swathed in cloth. Song opened up the folds and poured some water into a bowl. He looked at his face in the small hand mirror. It looked thinner than he remembered. His cheekbones had sharpened and his jaw had a harder edge to it. The whites of his eyes were red. He blinked at his reflection. He reached up and felt again the soft bristles on his upper lip and chin. It was like he was looking at someone else’s face.

  Song took up Father Holmes’ razor to shave off the new growth. He nicked his skin but it felt good. His face burned against the scraping metal and stung with the lather of caustic soap. He used Father Holmes’ scissors to cut the fringe away from his eyes, bending forward to let the tresses hang down above the bowl. Then he lay flat on Father Holmes’ bed, staring at the ceiling.

  He had lost his greatest friend. He had lost himself for a while, too. He thanked Jon for rescuing him. And Jingy for being so quick to forgive him. Li Bai’s advice swirled around his head. ‘Get on with your own life now, Song. You got to think harder about surviving.’ There was Mr Leigh’s booming voice: ‘Remember that if you believe hard enough that you’re lucky, you will be.’ ‘I’d like you to do whatever you want to do.’ That was what Father Holmes had said. ‘Follow your own dreams.’ Song remembered Father Holmes putting his arms around him after that conversation, and Song imagining a time without him, yet willing it never to be. But the time had come. He had lost everyone he loved. That was the curse of his life. So now he would leave everything behind and go and find his freedom. Upriver.

  CHAPTER 13

  There had been weeks of hard rain and the river was high. Jesus had not stopped complaining since the first day. The wet clothes, the insects, the food. A month in and they hadn’t found a grain of gold.

  The pair didn’t speak much. Song was careful to remember what Jesus had said about not liking talkers. Instead he watched on from a distance, studying Jesus’ technique as he took up each of his tools. Jesus worked slowly, swilling the water around his iron battel, filtering the riverbed matter. When he had time between his chores in the camp, Song copied him. It was a similar technique to the one Sammy had shown him.

  ‘Gold in your blood, boy,’ Jesus said. ‘I know ’em when I see ’em. You were born to do this.’

  ‘Glad you think so.’

  ‘Never been wrong.’

  ‘Seems like you need a lot of patience though. I’ve always thought I’ve been short on patience.’

  ‘Patience.’ Jesus snorted. ‘Luck. That’s what you need. Good, ol’ fashioned luck.’

  That was the first conversation they’d had in a week. Jesus wasn’t teaching him everything he knew, like he’d promised. In fact, he wasn’t teaching him anything. Song felt more like a camp hand than a pork-knocker.

  At the end of the day Jesus threw himself in a hammock. ‘Where’s the goddamn food ? Late and cold.’

  Jesus was in a worse mood than usual. His body was covered in welts from the tiny bêtes rouges insects which had burrowed into the creases of his skin: his armpits, the backs of his knees, his groin. He set about trying to squeeze out the tiny critters and then took up a burning log from the fire to run across his skin. Song knew how the sweep of a flame could offer some relief from the itching.

  After they had finished eating, darkness came swiftly. Song threw some wet wood upon the embers and lay back in his hammock, scooped into its comfortable moon shape. He did not feel tired tonight. There were howler monkeys calling from afar, their sound so strange it was hard to believe they were part of this world. He loved nights this dark. He could pretend he was alone upriver. Without Jesus. Only himself to depend upon.

  Jesus was stirring again, restless with the fiery itching. Song shut out the man’s stream of abuse. He heard him at the fire taking up another burning log.

  Suddenly Song’s hammock was flipped and he landed with a thump on the ground. Before he had recovered his breath he felt the weight of Jesus land hard on his back. He tried to turn over but Jesus struck him across the side of his head.

  ‘Don’t try it,’ Jesus said.

  Song twisted his body, trying to jerk Jesus off him. Instead he felt the man press down heavier on his buttocks. There was a torrent of pain between his shoulders and he smelled the burning of skin.

  ‘One more move. One. You wouldn’t be the first man I’ve known to burn to death.’

  Song could hear Jesus’ close breathing. There was another blow to his back. He felt a thump, and then smelled the burning as his skin crisped.

  ‘You stay still if you know what’s good for you.’

  Song could barely breathe with the weight of Jesus upon him and the pain of his searing skin. Jesus was yanking at the string waistband of Song’s trousers. Song heard the cloth rip and he cried out before Jesus struck him again across the head. Then came the burning log another time upon his back. Jesus pressed it down hard. Song’s skin pinched and tightened. He screwed up his face. Tears squeezed out of his eyes. It was as if he was already somewhere further along in his life and not where he was at this instant lying on the ground. He knew he would always remember the smell of his scorched skin.

  An image of Jinda being dragged to the river came into his head. He remembered seeing his back float up to the surface. He could hear the sound of his own machete moving through the air. And then the switch as Mr Carmichael came down again and again upon his back. There was that pain once more between his shoulders as he lay, face pressed down in the dust. He remembered fighting then not to black out, like he was fighting now. As Jesus came down upon him again and again. Song heard the cries,
unsure if they were Jesus’ or his own. He let his consciousness slip away because there was nowhere else to go.

  When Song woke the sun was already high. It hurt to open his eyes. Through the blur of his eyelashes he saw the fire was out. There was no sign of Jesus.

  He tried to pull himself up off the ground but gasped at the pain and lowered himself again. Then he made his way towards the ash of the fire, dragging himself forward on his elbows. There were ants all over the plates and in the pot he had used to cook the beans but he had put a lid on the leftover rice and he now ate the remains.

  He again tried to haul himself up off the ground. As he did he drew his torn trousers up around his waist and loosely knotted the frayed string. He reached behind him and let his fingers move lightly across the skin but it was too raw to touch. On his feet now, dizzy with the pain of every movement, he began to tidy the camp. He tried to close off his senses, close off the memories, but he could still smell his burned skin.

  Jesus woke Song with a kick to the side of his ribs.

  ‘Get your man his dinner,’ he yelled. ‘What the hell have you been doing all day ? No lunch. Now no dinner.’

  Song got to his feet. It was nearing nightfall already. He must have slept most of the day. He set about making the fire.

  Jesus threw himself into the hammock. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘You get on with it and get on with it fast. Now you know why a man needs a boy in his camp. No good sleeping away the day and feeling sorry for yourself. This is the way the young ’uns learn. We all go through it. Gets you ready for the hard world out there. You’ll learn to appreciate that I took pity on you and taught you what a man needs to survive upriver. As luck would have it, boy, you found Jesus.’

  As the rice boiled Song roughly descaled a fish with the knife Father Holmes had given him. He gripped it in his hand, feeling less alone knowing that the vicar had once held the same black horn handle. Then Song fried the fish on both sides in a pan of oil. He had not said a word.