Figures in a Landscape

by Barry England

  He should have seen all this. In a black mood, hating Ansell, he snarled,

  ‘We’d better bloody hurry then!’

  Once across, they wormed deep into the next field, and settled to keep watch; but they fell asleep. Neither slept for long, and when they woke their faces seemed once more to be on fire. Ansell came awake screaming, and MacConnachie was forced to clap a hand over his mouth to silence him. Both then suffered a period of depression and pain, in which the wretchedness of their condition sat heavily upon them. Individually, they found that their facial skin had become distressingly stiff; and each saw, on the other, a faint beading of crystalline seepage to which neither referred. They sat in silence.

  MacConnachie produced the remainder of the meat, uneaten from breakfast, and they had an early meal, neither man finding it easy to eat, for they were suffering from shock. Then they drank. It occurred to Ansell, to his astonishment, that he had not felt thirsty after being so badly burned in the field, that he had not even thought of water until this moment. It was remarkable; as though his body had taken on a new and paradoxical set of reactions.

  When they squatted, relief came at once, and both gave vent to their amusement, splitting their faces with laughter. The skin wept.

  MacConnachie cleaned the gun, worrying because his hands would not stop trembling. Fear was an old friend, but its out­ward expression a new enemy.

  The Goons came and cut down the stalks beside the tributary. The fire burned until it reached the water, where it died, dying also at the mud-flats. But far to the right it burned as strongly as ever, and was burning still when night came. At last it was their ally, for it drew attention away from them, and stood as a beacon for their night crossing of the valley. The helicopter lingered above the flames but its sting was drawn, darkness and the demands of the fire rendering it impotent. MacConnachie knew it was time to move, and rose. Ansell said, ‘Give me the gun.’ He took it and handed it back.

  ‘It’s still on single-shot.’

  MacConnachie snorted softly.

  ‘Come on.’

  But it was a necessary touch of warmth in the darkness. Now his hands were steady. It did not occur to him that it was a warn­ing as well; already Ansell’s attention to this detail had become haphazard.

  There was no moon. They passed the point from which they had turned back and, walking upright, stepped out on to the mud­flats. At their backs the fire raged steadily, distant now, thrusting fingers of flame into the sky, imparting a flickering glow to the air above. All about them rose up the musty odour of fire recently extinct, heavy in the cool, dank night.

  They kept close to the shadow of the low walls, but encoun­tered no danger. Once or twice louder noises rose above the gentle murmur of the late evening village, and if they looked to their left they could see the formation of streets in the pattern of the lights. All talk must be of the fire; it represented a vast loss to the community. On one occasion a boat passed slowly down the river, a lamp burning in its stern; this was useful to them since, with no moonlight reflected off the water, it had become difficult to judge how far they had to go.

  In fifteen minutes they reached the river line. MacConnachie signalled to Ansell to cover him from the angle of the nearest wall, and advanced to the water’s edge. He crouched and looked both ways along it, listening. Then he turned to face inland, lowering himself until his chin touched the earth. By this means he was able to project the nearest features against the skyline; there was nothing to cause alarm: a hut or two, one tree. He turned back to the river and, leaning out over it, lowered his head until his cheek almost touched the water. From this posture he looked again along the river, first one way and then the other, for fully two minutes in each direction. At length, satisfied, he rose, signalled Ansell to rejoin him, and led the way along the river bank to the right. In five minutes they came to a small jetty, dark against the leaden water, where a boat sat sluggishly berthed, tapping gently.

  For no reason, Ansell had supposed that the river flowed from right to left. He saw now that the reverse was true, and that happily even the water would help them to maintain their bias to the right.

  At MacConnachie’s indication he stepped down into the boat, holding firmly to MacConnachie’s outstretched arm in case, tilting at the sudden weight, the hulk should precipitate him into the water. There was the danger, too, that the shell might tear under his foot, so powerful was the smell, and alarming the touch, of soft, rotting timber. But the craft held together and MacConnachie joined him, taking the stern position and pushing off, to set the boat in heavy motion across the water. It was a rest­ful progress and Ansell kept thinking, it’s too easy, it’s too easy. MacConnachie unshipped the single oar and, settling it over the stern, propelled them forward with cautious sweeps, relying for the most part on the drift of the river to carry them to the farther bank. Ansell turned now and peered over the bows into the gloom, trying to make out some shape at the other side of the river.

  Time passed and they drifted gently, little waves slapping softly against the side of the boat in face of a faint breeze. Then Ansell found that he was able to make out the first, larger shapes that lay ahead and realized the next moment that, on their present course, they would arrive directly below the only visible hut. As he turned to warn MacConnachie, a shout rose up from the bank they had just quit.

  He froze, his stomach pinched tight again with fear. He could see the dark bulk of MacConnachie as unmoving as himself, the oar suspended a few inches above the water. Silence closed about them, disturbed only by the gentle lapping of the waves and a faint drip from the oar.

  Then the shout came again, louder but still questioning. They waited. Out of the corner of his eye, Ansell could see the fire flickering beyond the shadow of MacConnachie’s head. He thought he heard a sound behind him and then, or so it seemed to him, the pale diffusion of light increased slightly. MacConnachie muttered,

  ‘Someone on the other bank has lit a lamp. We must be visible in silhouette.’

  Ansell couldn’t turn his head, for his face was towards the questioning voice, but he assumed it must be the occupant of the hut he had seen. Suddenly the voice commanded angrily; they had been spotted. MacConnachie turned and shouted back, im­parting to his tone the slur of drunkenness and laughing rau­cously. There was a pause, and when the voice replied it seemed to Ansell that he understood every word: ‘Why the bloody hell didn’t you say so?’ MacConnachie called again, more drunk but placatory. There was a brief complaining murmur, and the con­versation ended.

  But another started: the man with the lamp decided to reacti­vate the dialogue. MacConnachie stood up and, turning the boat along the flow of the river, shouted back. For some minutes a cheerful conversation ensued, growing louder and louder as man and boat drew farther apart, until at length, with an exchange of mutual good wishes, it too ended. MacConnachie was chuckling softly to himself, obviously stimulated; and now Ansell under­stood something that, until this moment, he had not perceived: MacConnachie actually enjoyed these moments of contact. Per­haps they restored his confidence; perhaps they convinced him that, their disguise intact, they were indeed part of the landscape through which they passed; but Ansell doubted it. He felt there was another reason he didn’t altogether understand. Rather crossly, he whispered,

  ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Us. The Goons are blaming us for the fire. We started it.’

  ‘That is charming.’

  ‘Let’s get ashore.’

  Using the oar as a tiller, MacConnachie pointed the prow of the boat towards the opposite shore, and they drifted in. Just before they hit the bank Ansell leapt up on to it, holding fast to the bow rope. Then MacConnachie scrambled ashore, took the rope, shoved the boat out as far into the water as it would go, and left it to drift gently down the river out of sight. They turned and flattened themselves against the earth, having first advanced a little from the dangers of the water’s edge.

  There were few h
uts about; the night was dark; and the worst water hazard was behind them. MacConnachie was pleased. But soon the night glow would come, and they must master the re­maining two tributaries before then. There had been nothing to gain by taking the boat with them, since neither tributary was deep or wide, and the disadvantages outweighed the potential gain. Unlike Ansell, he was not troubled by the feeling that things were going too smoothly. Experience had taught him that when luck came, it came a bundle, and the wise man rode it; when it went, it went completely and without warning. He led the way forward.

  The first tributary was simplicity itself. They hoisted their pos­sessions, waded across, felt the water rise to the level of their chests then down to their knees again, and climbed out.

  The second tributary wasn’t like that at all.

  Halfway there, MacConnachie was sure he heard a noise to his front. He stopped and they spread to ten feet apart, waiting. No sound came. He could see nothing but ill-defined shapes in the gloom. For fifteen minutes he remained absolutely still, project­ing his instincts, confidently at first, and then again and again in an increasingly desperate attempt to absorb the feel of the territory ahead. But it didn’t work. For the first time he groped blindly, but no picture came. Fifteen more minutes, sick at heart and chill; but nothing came. They had to move on, but sudden­ly to be so uncertain, where he was generally so sure, racked him achingly. With nerves stretched unbearably, he floated forward in a state of painfully acute awareness, as though nothing stood between himself and raw apprehension, and the smallest noise, of a beetle crushed, might crash against his inner ear.

  They were inching along the side of a hut; to avoid it at this bad moment would be too dangerous. The tributary lay fifteen feet ahead. It might be the building, MacConnachie thought, a presence so oppressive to him, that blunted his perceptions, blocking the signals that normally came through to him.

  But once they were clear of it he advanced to the very edge of the water and, lying prone, waited and waited for danger to make itself felt; but none did. Minutes passed. He was in a con­dition of utter uncertainty; he had no idea what to do. It was as though the gift had suddenly fled from him to a distance; but somewhere, just beyond the rim of its present horizon, an alarm signal clamoured persistently to be let in.

  And then the night grew lighter. The glow had come, early, and MacConnachie felt abandoned.

  Ansell was shocked by how clearly, all of a sudden, he could make out the shape of MacConnachie against the earth. And he had the tingling feeling that waves of distress were radiating from the other man, which disturbed him greatly. MacConnachie returned with exquisite slowness and deliberation, thrust the gun at him, took the knife and, after much cautious wriggling by Ansell, the canteen, and left the suitcase. His instructions, un­spoken, were clear: cover me, I’m going to cross the tributary.

  Watching the gliding shadow, Ansell fretted fearfully. Why was MacConnachie so suddenly afraid?

  MacConnachie crawled forward and entered the water, lowering himself feet first until he touched the bottom. He found that he had to bend his knees a little to leave only his head above the surface. With the canteen hanging round his neck, and the knife clutched in his right hand at waist level, he waited for a moment or two; then launched himself gently forward.

  Although this was the narrowest belt of water they had so far encountered, it flowed not more quickly but more slowly than the others, with a flat, sluggish drift. He had no trouble in staying upright. Foot by foot he worked his way across towards the other bank. He was more than halfway there when a voice spoke. Quite casually, in the Goon language, it said,

  ‘There’s no one there.’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  ‘I tell you . . .’

  ‘Shut up, Pig Shit!’

  Why didn’t you warn me, MacConnachie cried in his head, why didn’t you warn me? We tried, we tried, said the inner voices, but where were you?

  Ansell felt sick with fear. Have they seen him? What are they saying? Keep still, Mac, in Christ’s name. I don’t know where to shoot. I’m blind.

  Now that he had heard them, MacConnachie saw them. Four darker shadows against the lightening sky above the bank; four Goons, four guns. But Christ they were good. One of them was. They had outwaited him. It must be the one who called the other Pig Shit. MacConnachie knew how he felt.

  It happened so gradually that Ansell was appalled suddenly to realize that he couldn’t see MacConnachie. One moment his head had been there, just visible against the pale water; the next it was gone.

  Be careful, Mac.

  Oh, God, don’t let him die!

  Under the water, MacConnachie knew he would have to act quickly. He couldn’t breathe out until he was under the lee of the far bank; the bubbles would betray him. He must keep low, move slowly—the weight of the canteen helped there—and he mustn’t lose his sense of direction.

  He came up against the soft mass of the bank, twisted his head over his shoulder until he faced upwards, then rose slowly, using the canteen as an anchor. First his nose, then his lips and eyes broke the surface. He let out breath in an agonized, silent gasp. He could see little that would orient him: the sky, and the dark edge of the overhang. He breathed deeply for a moment or two, then let himself rise up until his ears and head were clear of the water. His heart beat more steadily. He waited and listened.

  Ansell searched the shadowed cut of the far bank again and again, but he could see nothing. He must be there, he told him­self. I can only wait.

  Time passed: five minutes; ten; fifteen. This Goon was too damned good. MacConnachie was cold. Compared to the night air, the water was warm, but he shivered and trembled all over. He pressed the knife into the flesh of his thigh to diminish the other discomforts. Then a voice, directly above him, said,

  ‘Maybe you’re right. Here.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But don’t talk on patrol again, or I’ll have ’em for door knockers.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  There was a momentary glow above him, then a match tum­bled down to hiss in the water and float past.

  ‘Keep it shaded.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Silence. Bitter cold.

  ‘The fire is nearly out.’

  ‘What a load of dross they are. No guts. No discipline. A rabble.’

  ‘They should be in your unit for a week, sir.’

  ‘They should truly. In the old days . . .’

  He’s been in the water for more than half an hour, Ansell thought. But he must be safe. There’s been no shooting, and they’ve started to talk again. I must stay awake. I must be ready to move the moment he needs me. My elbows are going to sleep. It won’t get any lighter now till dawn. I wish I could see him. I wonder if he can see me? Why don’t they go?

  MacConnachie had been comforted by the lighting of the cigarette. The man was good, he thought, but getting old. Been in a base or training camp too long. Can’t take it any more. He’ll move soon because he’ll have to.

  He was good once, though. He’d had it then. It never leaves you completely. They’ll learn something, those young soldiers, if they’ve any brains at all. That man won’t die easily.

  Cold, cold.

  This bloody canteen weighs a ton.

  It wasn’t until they left that Ansell saw them. He had seen the cigarette being lit, and he knew where they were; but it wasn’t until they turned away and headed back towards the village that he was able to make out the four distinct shapes.

  Don’t move. Wait for Mac. He is relying on you to be in the same place.

  MacConnachie saw the cigarette fall into the water, and heard them go away but, chilled to the bone though he was, he spent another ten minutes immersed in the tributary. Should have been fifteen. Must be getting old. But we’ve already lost an hour.

  Ansell felt an immense surge of relief as he saw the dark shape haul itself from the water. For the first time he discovered how stiff and cold he had become. Setting the gu
n and suitcase ready, he waited eagerly for MacConnachie to signal. He saw MacConnachie look about, select a position from which he would be silhouetted against the sky to a man in Ansell’s position, and make the recognized gesture of Come To Me.

  Ansell went.

  Crouching beside MacConnachie, Ansell saw that the older man was shivering badly, every now and then releasing a slight, involuntary grunt. Having just passed through the tributary himself, and with his wet clothes chill against his legs, he realized how wearing and destructive the vigil in the water must have been. He knew that they must move at once, to restore the older man’s circulation.

  ‘I’ll take the lead,’ he whispered, and MacConnachie nodded at once.

  Ansell slid forward, gun at the ready, suitcase in his other hand. MacConnachie followed with the canteen and the knife.

  Now that the glow had come, Ansell was able to rely on his eyes rather than MacConnachie’s instinct, which he himself lacked. The shadows were yet darker, but the general configura­tion easier to make out. He saw a patrol and, halting MacConnachie, lay up until it had passed from view. But they made good time, and twenty minutes brought them to the edge of the outgoing mud-flats.

  MacConnachie came up, exchanged canteen and knife for suitcase and gun, and once more took over the lead.

  They went up the side of a retaining dyke. Near a single tree MacConnachie sensed danger, and drew Ansell into a crouch beside him. A patrol emerged to the right, clearly visible against the dull mirror of the mud. Its members wandered about for some moments, peering this way and that, but finally they peeled off in file to disappear in the direction of the tributary. Still MacConnachie kept a restraining hand on Ansell’s arm, and five minutes later another patrol came into view. This group moved purposefully across the mud-flats in extended order until they passed out of their field of vision to the left.

  MacConnachie had sensed them; he had known they were coming. He glowed inside with all the pleasure of a child dis­covering that the lost Teddy bear is found. The gift had come back to him.