Figures in a Landscape

by Barry England

  In a day, or two at the most, the rains would come and the Goons would bog down. So long as he and Ansell maintained progress, they could forget about the force to their rear. For the first four days of rain, perhaps for as long as a week, flying would be impossible and the Goons would lose their eyes as well. But the pilot was a man to take risks, and as the importance of his role grew, the danger inherent in the risks he would be willing to take would increase. Curtailed or not, he would be in the air at every opportunity, ignoring the threat of sudden, unpredict­able downpours that could swamp him. So long as they ran, he would hunt; so long as they gambled their lives, he would gamble his; they were now his meat.

  Somehow, despite the severity of the coming rains, he and Ansell must make full use of the week’s grace they would provide. He refused to think of their dwindling supplies, or to ask himself what would happen when the soup and paste ran out.

  But one thought haunted him: the Goons had used the huts to lure them into an ambush in the valley; was he now right to fear that the ambush itself had been the bait for a larger trap, the jaws of which waited with the force on the shelf above?

  And to the tail of this thought there was tied another: the water in the canteen would keep them alive for ten days, though after three they would cease to exist as a fighting unit. So had it really been such a blessing? Were they lucky, or were they cursed? The earth could curse a man. Nature could turn her face away.

  But what had he done to offend Nature?

  They had passed the shelf before he saw it. Then the helicopter came, and they watched it land and reinforce the party below. This time it remained in the vicinity, once more setting up its systematic pattern of search.

  The sky was still heavy and fluffy, the sun hidden behind banked clouds, but the rays came through to burn them as they climbed on and the air, seeming grey, was stolidly oppressive.

  Again and again MacConnachie tried to call up from his stomach that sense of unyielding purpose, but could never re­capture it for more than a moment or two. He could not become angry. The mountain towered above them, growing ever steeper as they rose above the ambush they had so fortuitously avoided. He could not see the peak. It would, in any case, only be the first of many. Already the rock face had taken on the scarred and barren look of high country, where nothing grows and no animal lives for long. All around them were endless pits and crags, horny scales of rock, angles and edges that slashed at the leather of their boots and skinned their legs. Their tattered slacks were now reduced to shreds, and the lower edges of their native coats were nibbled ragged by the jutting shards of stone.

  In their stunned and ruined condition, progress was minimal. Apart from the danger of falling, MacConnachie knew they did too little to hide themselves. But simply to keep moving upwards was all his body or mind could encompass.

  Ansell wallowed in a stupor, half asleep. His eyes went in and out of focus all the time, and he remained dizzy, grinding his way agonizingly upward. His brain had returned to his skull and burned there. Every time MacConnachie stopped, he stopped, sagging forward from the waist and sending his brain skidding down to the crown of his head, where it piled with a crash against the cranium wall. When MacConnachie started, he started, reversing the process and tilting his brain back between his ears with a soft, sickening swish.

  Yet, despite this, he remained in some uncalculated way in touch with his surroundings. He knew, as from a great distance, that his body and one other were going through the motions of a ritual that had been built in: a drill that would keep them safe long after the driver had taken his hands from the controls of the mechanism.

  Sort of a dead man’s handle.

  MacConnachie thought: there comes a moment when a man has to acknowledge that he is growing old. That he has grown old.

  Then he waits for death.

  No. He goes to meet it.

  And he kicks its teeth in.

  For three more hours, with little prompting from them, their arms and legs kept going. Then they stopped.

  ‘This is stupid.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Silence.

  Ansell said,

  ‘I can see the bones of my finger-tips.’

  ‘Look the other way.’

  There was no sound from the helicopter now, and the sky grew darker.

  ‘Tastes salty.’

  Silence.

  ‘Talk.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘You’re the brainy one.’

  Silence.

  ‘A man called Bertillon once worked out a method of identify­ing criminals.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Measured them.’

  ‘Measured what?’

  ‘Arms, legs, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Tools?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  Silence.

  ‘What about women?’

  ‘Measured them, too.’

  ‘What did he use?’

  ‘Tape measure, I suppose.’

  ‘Up and down, or across?’

  ‘Probably judged by the size of their mouths.’

  A dry, creaking sound came from MacConnachie. Ansell said,

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can tell by the size of their mouths?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so. Never compared ’em.’

  ‘There’s something about wide lips though, isn’t there?’

  ‘There’s something about Chinese women. That isn’t true.’

  ‘No, I never thought it was.’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Never had one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You haven’t missed anything.’

  Silence.

  ‘I’ve never had any woman.’

  It took a moment or two for the full import of this to sink in. Then, tortured though he was by the wrenching of flesh involved, MacConnachie simply had to turn his head.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve never slept with a woman in my life.’

  Silence.

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘No.’

  MacConnachie had to pin it down, if only for the sake of his sanity:

  ‘You’ve never had a bit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve never laid a woman?’

  ‘No.’

  Silence.

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never.’

  Silence.

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Quite.’

  MacConnachie was visited by a terrible sense of guilt and responsibility.

  ‘What have I done to you?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Kid, this is serious.’

  ‘It’s not that bad.’

  ‘It’s . . . terrifying.’

  MacConnachie was in a, to him, unaccustomed state of awe. Ansell said,

  ‘There’s not much we can do about it now, anyway.’

  Then, as though to explain this incapacity, he added,

  ‘I’m not—too beautiful—just at the moment.’

  MacConnachie shook his head in wonderment and pain. He said urgently,

  ‘First thing! When we get back—first thing!’

  ‘We’ll not get back, Mac. I’ve had it as far as the women are concerned. If I’d known. But you don’t, do you?’

  ‘Oh God. Christ.’

  Silence.

  ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Having a woman.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘You shove it in, what do you think?’

  ‘But what do you say?’

  ‘What do you say? You just shove it in, that’s all.’

  ‘But there must be some lead-in . . .’

  ‘Well, of course there is! I don’t know. You shove the bloody thing in, that’s all. What do you want, for God’s sake?’
r />   ‘Tell me, Mac. You must have had lots of women.’

  ‘Yeah, well . . . that’s different.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Different sort of woman.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘The sort of woman you’d have.’

  ‘What sort of woman would I have?’

  MacConnachie controlled his exasperation.

  ‘You tell me.’

  Silence.

  ‘Blonde. I’ve always hoped she’d be blonde. And small. With long, straight hair. And a tough, skinny body. And sexy.’

  ‘Sounds okay.’

  ‘But with terrific dignity, you know? So that she never seems sexy with other people, but when she’s with me . . .’

  ‘Sure, yeah.’

  ‘Only what do you say to such a woman? How do you go about it?’

  ‘She’d find a way.’

  ‘But how can you tell when a woman’s feeling sexy?’

  ‘Well, it shows. In her face, and her . . . What do you want, for Christ’s sake, a bloody lecture?’

  ‘I suppose I do, yes.’

  ‘Look, you can’t . . . I mean, you don’t just talk about that sort of thing. It . . . happens.’

  ‘But what happens, Mac?’

  ‘Sweet God Almighty . . .’

  ‘I mean, the last time you had a woman, what did you do?’

  ‘I tell you, it’s not the same! It’s a different sort of woman.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Your sort, you have to treat with style. The dinner, and . . . You can’t just poke a woman like that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You should respect her! She’s got . . . You don’t just rush at her.’

  ‘But don’t you poke her just the same, whether you respect her or not?’

  MacConnachie was outraged.

  ‘Of course you don’t! Christ, what do you think? This is no two-dollar lay you’re talking about! You respect a woman like that. You treat her with . . . Now, you remember that, kid.’

  ‘Yes, Mac.’

  ‘You remember that.’

  ‘Yes, Mac.’

  Silence.

  MacConnachie scowled.

  ‘What do I know about it, anyway? I’ve never been near tail like that in my life. Every bit I’ve ever had, I’ve paid for. Well, that’s right. That’s fair. You don’t want a woman cluttering up your life. Pox everything up for yourself.’

  ‘No, Mac.’

  ‘No, well—that’s all right, then.’

  Silence.

  ‘But the—mechanics are the same, aren’t they? Whether you pay or not? I mean, that’s what I’d like to know about. I’d like to have done it just once, and not have to imagine. Nothing’s ever the way you imagine it.’

  MacConnachie felt a burning sense of grief, such as he had never experienced before on behalf of another human being. Awkwardly, he murmured,

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, kid. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘So am I.’

  With painful seriousness, MacConnachie said,

  ‘If I could find a woman. The right sort for you. I’d . . .’

  ‘I know. I know you would.’

  MacConnachie shrugged.

  ‘I’m sorry. We’ve had that.’

  A silence.

  ‘Do they enjoy it?’

  ‘Why, sure. They love it, kid,’ said MacConnachie, who had never seen anything but professional indifference in a woman’s eyes in his life. ‘They do everything they can to make it easy for you, and good. For themselves too.’

  ‘I’m glad about that. They must, really, but you’re never sure.’

  ‘’Course they do.’

  ‘There was a chap called Tiresias. In Greek Mythology. He was supposed to have had it both ways. He said the women have the best of it, but I shouldn’t have thought so.’

  ‘No, that’s a load of cobblers. You both have the best of it. That’s the way it is.’

  ‘I’m glad. That makes it good.’

  ‘That’s right. Sure.’

  A silence.

  ‘The right woman for me would have to be hairless and done to a turn. There can’t be many of them about.’

  ‘No, there must be pretty much of a shortage in that depart­ment.’

  Silence.

  ‘Are you cold, Mac?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘We’ll move again in a minute.’

  ‘I think we should go now, Mac. We’re in a bad way. We might not start again, if we wait.’

  A silence.

  ‘Yes, we’ll go now.’

  They didn’t go far. Within twenty feet the lassitude bore down on them again, heavier than ever. They were now literally crawling up the side of a mountain that seemed without end. And such was their paucity of strength that they clung claw-stiff, for minutes at a time, to any spur that offered more than minimal security against falling. At times the angle of ascent was greater than sixty degrees, and then they reached about them with un­gainly, crippled limbs, in search of an easier passage. After a short while, they stopped once more.

  ‘I am old,’ grieved MacConnachie.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Ansell.

  Does it happen so quickly? thought MacConnachie. Does it come on a man so suddenly, and with so little warning? That he is one moment strong, and the next . . . We are finished. But so quickly.

  It was not without warning. Last night, in the valley, we used the last of our strength. And last night, in the valley . . .

  For this was the true root of his fear. He had told himself that he had failed to see the ambush because his eyes and ears were getting used up. But in truth he should have known it was there, because the gift should have told him. And the gift had not, because the gift itself was no longer there. It had been taken back.

  He knew now what he had done to offend Nature. He had ruined Ansell; and that would not be forgiven him. You cannot go against Nature, and survive. She had taken back her gift because he no longer deserved it. That was just. It was proper. Retribution would be terrible, swift, and complete.

  That he must die was plain, and he accepted it. But to die abandoned, that hurt.

  Without the gift, he was just another man.

  ‘It’s no good, Mac. We’ll have to rest.’

  A long time, kid. A long time.

  The rain came.

  It fell with such violence, such completeness, that for a moment they were unable to take it in. In an instant the whole landscape turned fluid, the rock wall moved, and water poured past and down and around and beneath them, throwing up a gout of spume as though they sped upwards and the waters were still. They could see at once no more than a few feet in any direction. The air was full of falling water and tumultuous spray. The roaring of the torrent deafened them as rain thundered against their steel helmets and screeched over the stones.

  The transformation was total.

  And then pain came to them as driven rain embedded itself in ruined flesh. They lashed about in search of shelter. Ansell lost his footing and skittered down the slippery slope until the sodden material of his native coat caught among the glistening shards. His gun, transferred to his hand a moment before to ease his ravaged neck, flew from his grasp and twisted away out of sight into the roiling chasm below. And now the water tumbled down to find him, breaking against a spur just above him and showering his face with stinging, flinty persistence. He writhed and stretched in his efforts to avoid it, clinging at arm’s length to the only crack his fingers could find, his eyes shut tight, his feet skidding and sliding off the stones as he sought desperately but in vain for further support.

  Holding on for his life, MacConnachie peered down into the churning gloom, but nowhere could he see Ansell. The water poured over his clenched hand and down the sleeve of his coat but, since there was nothing in such soaked material to obstruct its passage, it flowed on across his chest and stomach to escape either along his other arm to the suitcase, or down his legs to his fe
et, where it overflowed his boots and reached the rock wall once again. The rain hammered against his back and neck, cascading off his steel helmet in blinding veils of liquid; his ears ached, and the skin of his cheeks throbbed. He tried to shout, but in the clamorous din he was unable even to hear himself.

  He would have to go down.

  I must have both hands free, he thought; but where to leave the case?

  In an attempt to seek a fissure in the rock he turned back, but the rain, able once more to get at his face, attacked it savagely, blinding him. He tried to peer out through the gap where his lashes had once been, but it was useless; a jumping, poppled blur was all he could make out.

  Resigning himself to blindness, he began to edge sideways through the racing water, acutely aware that one error of hand or foot might cause him to lose his tenuous contact with the rushing surface. He dragged the suitcase after him, dabbing out­wards with his other hand in search of a crack large enough to accommodate it; it wasn’t until he had found one and raised himself with infinite caution to crouch over it that he perceived his mistake. The inferior material of the case had become so waterlogged that it had burst apart, torn open by the ragged edges of rock. Many of their possessions were gone, and a wet length of blanket trailed out beside him.

  There was no time to worry about it. The crack he had found lay in the path of a tumbling stream that poured in at the top and swirled out at the bottom. But it was deep enough and, as far as he could judge, sufficiently jagged within to hold a bundle against the pressure of water. He stuffed the remains of the suitcase and its contents in as far as he could, forcing them down in an attempt to wedge them firmly.

  The spout of water buffeted Ansell’s ear until he screamed with pain. Again and again he turned his head in an attempt to avoid it, but to no avail. For minutes now he had been blind, and his arms and fingers had reached the point where even the fear of death would not long maintain their grip. He had succeeded in finding purchase for one foot, but every time he tried to use it to lever himself upwards the squishy leather of his boot slid off, and the entire weight of his body was thrown again on to his arms. The suddenness of his descent had pitched the canteen over his shoulder so that it now hung down his back. With each jerk the strap was closed more tightly about his throat; breathing was in any case difficult, for the water was always in his face. He feared that he might drown or suffocate before he fell. Of the three he preferred to fall; some part of his mind told him he must recognize the moment to decide.