The small boy burst out onto a tiny beach where seals had once come to breed. Zande had never seen them, only a dead pup. His mother had.
‘When I first arrived here as a fledgling,’ she had told him, skimming a flat pebble across the water to make it bounce, ‘hundreds came every year until the fishermen drove them away.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they were eating all the fish.’ She chuckled. ‘Why else? Fishermen need to catch fish to earn their living,’ and she had quickly placed her finger against her son’s mouth to stop his ceaseless curiosity, expressed by the word why.
At the far side, the ground changed yet again, the underground stream making squares of cultivation possible. Here, chickens had once scratched contently and vegetables had kept them well fed, until winter frosts turned their leaves brittle and brown. Now it looked strangely deserted, the chickens gone, stolen, the vegetables uprooted. Nothing apart from a straggly line of zucchini plants remained, their trumpet-shaped flowers still struggling to produce fruit before winter closed in, plus an apple or two on the topmost branch of their solitary apple tree; the marauders in too much of a hurry to bother with them.
Zande’s path from the boggy ground, where he had lain all night, had led him round in a half-circle. Once again, he was facing marshland, although this side was too dangerous for anything other than frogs and birds to move around in; the boggy ground treacherous. Even so, that had not stopped his mother. On hearing the screams, she had snatched Zande from his bed and flown with him to a patch of dense reeds where the ground was firm and the water shallow, warning him to stay quiet and not move. ‘I will come for you, I promise.’
Except she hadn’t.
The hut they had shared had been sited on an outcrop of rock close to the ocean, the rise and fall of the tide as much a part of their lives as the heartbeat in their chests. It was a good spot. ‘We are safe here and can grow our own food, Zande,’ his mother had assured him, when he had asked why they didn’t have a house in the village. ‘We have salt water for bathing and fresh water for drinking.’ She had pointed to a wooden cover, flush with the ground, water seeping over its edges. ‘Your father dug us a well.’
‘Will he be back soon?’
‘Yes.’ She had patted her stomach. ‘He will be here to greet his new child.’
And Zande had faithfully watched the sky every night, hoping to see his father’s black wings that were so powerful they could carry a child with ease. He hadn’t appeared; instead, strangers had come – wicked, wicked strangers.
The small boy broke into a run, praying to Zeus their house remained intact and his mother was there. Perhaps she was scrubbing their clothes clean in a pail of water drawn from the well and had simply forgotten to call him in to eat. Then he recalled the high-pitched screaming that had saturated the night sky. He stopped, his feet scuttling backwards under their own volition at the sight of the blackened timbers, no longer vertical but leaning drunkenly, the ties that had held them together the first of the fire’s victims. Cautiously, keeping a safe distance from the smouldering timbers, he edged around … still hoping. His face lightened. Under a rocky overhang, tucked almost out of sight in deepest shade, was a small meat safe, the fine-mesh in the door frame protecting their food from flies.
Pulling it open, his fingers fastened on a loaf of bread and cheese. Not much, but enough to win a word of praise from the older boy. Hungrily, he broke off a hunk and stuffed it into his mouth.
In the distance, he caught a faint bleating sound. Leaving the food, he ran back towards the sea, the coastal path rising steeply now. A flash of white and their goat, trailing a broken tether, trotted out onto the track, pausing occasionally to snatch at a mouthful of grass. Zande lurched forward, his shadow startling the goat into movement. With an obstinate bleat, it broke into a run, ignoring the steepness of a slope that forced the boy onto his hands and knees.
Breasting the hill, Zande emerged onto flat turf, to find the goat had forgotten its panicky flight and was now peering quizzically over the edge of the cliff. In slow motion, he edged his fingers towards its tether and, looping it around his wrist, gazed idly at the beach below. It was a good beach, very different from the tiny shelf of sand he and his mother walked across to reach their home. This was paved with stone from the cliff, rounded and smooth from the buffeting of the waves, and nestling deep within the cracks there were shells.
‘Once upon a time, these were someone’s home.’ ‘Why?’
‘Because every living thing, including sea creatures have to live somewhere,’ his mother had said, digging into the rocks to uncover a conch shell, its dark pink interior sparkling in the sunlight. ‘Such an amazing beach; never the same two days running.’
Today, it didn’t register with Zande to search for shells. Shocked, he stared down at the beach, unable to withdraw his gaze. Like detritus fallen from the cliff in a storm, or dropped to earth by some vengeful god, the pebble beach was littered with bodies. Coloured red and black and white … or what had once been white, willowy swan necks stained with blood and already yellowing. Among them human forms, both big and small, their arms and legs disjointed and ill-fitting.
‘I told you. Didn’t I tell you—’ Yöst’s harsh tone severed the air, his face awash with tears, his voice broken. ‘I warned you not to come up here, didn’t I?’
Zande spun round. ‘Why?’
Yöst swung away from the cliff edge. ‘Bring the goat.’
‘But why?’ Zande dragged his footsteps, the goat trotting docilely in his wake.
‘I don’t know, do I.’ Yöst’s loud tones flew back at him from the cliff-top. He stared up into the sky, layers of storm- driven grey cloud building into a cathedral of spires and turrets. ‘But by Zeus, I promise I’ll find out. Come on.’
The rain, so eagerly awaited by those whose livelihood depended on the weather, stayed away, and by dark Yöst had fashioned a lean-to out of some half-burned timbers, balancing them against a ridge of stone that had once been the foundations of Zande’s house. He didn’t have any ties and had been forced to use freshly picked reeds that had left fine cuts across his palms. Carefully heeling the last of the timbers into the soft ground, he swung round, staring out across the horizon. Under the deepening gloom, the sea had become a swathe of moving darkness, broken by occasional streaks of white foam where waves battered against the reef.
‘They should hold as long as there’s no wind. At least we will be dry,’ he muttered. ‘Tomorrow, I’ll try and find something better.’
‘Will Mother come back tomorrow?’ Zande’s voice rose plaintively. The young boy followed him into the shelter. After a meal of bread and milk, the little girl had fallen asleep, warmly wrapped in Willem’s bedcover.
Yöst didn’t bother answering.
He had tried, the first dozen times the small boy asked, understanding the bodies on the beach had been wiped from his young memory as quickly as footprints that the tide erased.
‘How much food have we got?’
He knew exactly how much food they had as well; all that remained in plain sight.
They had left the goat tethered to a stake in the vegetable patch. The tether was too short but he had no means of reattaching its broken leather traces, and had chosen a spot with a plentiful supply of grass and leftover stalks. With luck that would suffice for one night. It wasn’t a very big goat, although it was important it ate; they needed milk for the child.
‘I can catch crabs and whelks. I used to help Mother.’
‘That sounds good.’ Yöst closed his mind to the notion that if rains came and doused the smouldering timbers, they would have no means of lighting a fire to cook them. ‘Try and get some sleep. Tomorrow—’
‘Will Zeus himself come to rescue us?’
Yöst didn’t bother answering that question either.
Pulling a piece of timber across its opening, he crawled into the lean-to, fitting his torso around the small child, the partially burned planks ro
ugh against his back. ‘There isn’t much room but that’s all to the good. We will be warmer this way.’
Unable to sleep, Yöst lay listening to the boy’s breathing. At first containing sobs of loss before, as exhaustion and warmth took their toll, levelling out into the long, quiet sighs of sleep. He shut his eyes, reciting his prayer of thanks to Zeus, unsure what he was thanking him for, and wondering why of all his friends, he alone had survived.
Dawn saw him outside again tugging at the stake to move the goat, the encircling ground bare and brown. It had rained in the night, layering foliage with fine moisture, and the air was still thick with it. At least the goat’s udder was full and they had a bucket. That had been almost the first thing he had scavenged – a bucket. Blackened by flames, he had scoured it with sand as his grandmother had once shown him. He had found a couple of beakers too; their metal sides flattened by a callous boot, and had pulled them apart again. He recalled the many different things his grandmother had tried to teach him, not only how to read and write, also practical things, how to bait a hook and bury vegetables underground to keep them fresh. Yet, despite wishing he had paid greater attention, for the first time he experienced a sense of relief that she had died the previous autumn. Now he had no need to mourn her, only the others. Willem’s face swam into view and he hastily blinked it away.
Shortening the tether to a hand’s span, to prevent the goat moving, he squatted down on his haunches and reached for a teat, giving it an exploratory squeeze. His grandmother had always insisted he washed the teats and udder first, except that was not an option; not today, when he possessed only a single container. Maybe tomorrow. If the rain kept away, he could search the island. After an admonitory attempt to butt him, the animal decided to ignore his presence, hungrily ripping at the grass stalks within reach. Irritably, he waited a while longer for it to settle.
‘Patience,’ he heard his grandmother’s voice. ‘Goats are such unruly animals, little different from what you once were. And still are.’ She would cuff him gently, rubbing the back of his head with the heel of her hand. ‘I can see I shall need all the patience in the world to rear you.’ Then she’d smile taking the sting out of her words.
Tentatively, he squeezed again, relieved as warm milk began to flow into the bucket, rich and creamy.
When Yöst crawled back into the shelter, carefully pushing the pitcher of milk in front of him, Zande was still asleep, his knees drawn up to his chest, subconsciously missing Yöst’s warmth, although the little girl was awake.
‘You hungry?’ he whispered.
She nodded. ‘Wet,’ and pointed to her cover.
Zande stirred sleepily, stretching his legs. Abruptly waking, a cry of anguish escaped his mouth. He fixed his gaze on Yöst, his lower lip trembling.
‘It’s going to be all right,’ Yöst shushed, passing him a beaker of warm milk. He held the other cup for the child and she gulped at it hungrily, her blue eyes peering inquisitively over the rim. ‘We have lots of food. The goat gave us a big present of milk. We can dip our bread in it. And after we’ve eaten, we’ll rig a line and catch those fish and crabs.’
‘It’s raining,’ Zande whispered, listening to drops hitting the wooden timbers. ‘It will stop soon. Mother always said—’ He stopped, his speech suspended, frozen, staring at the cup in his fingers.
‘It’s good to talk about her.’
‘She isn’t dead,’ Zande shouted. ‘She promised—’
‘What did she say about the rain?’
Diverted, the small boy glanced up from under his eyelashes. ‘If it rains at night, by eleven it will be bright.’
Yöst flashed a reassuring grin, his thick eyebrows twisted into question marks, giving him a comical appearance. He checked the empty space on his wrist. ‘Then we will go fishing at quarter-past eleven.’
Zande’s mouth curved into a timid smile, wishing it was permitted to hurl himself into the older boy’s arms, as he did with his mother whenever he fell down and hurt himself, instinctively aware that love was a magical entity, capable of easing both painful cuts and bruises. Yöst gave him that same feeling. Slowly, the coldness that had settled in his body from lying in the chill waters of the marshland began to lessen. If Yöst were there to care for them, they would be all right. He sat up straight. ‘Do you want more?’ he said, taking the little girl’s empty beaker.
‘TaTa.’
‘Is she thanking us or is that her name?’ Yöst said. He dipped the beaker in the remaining milk. ‘Is that your name?’
‘TaTa.’
‘Tara?’
Angered, the child shook her head, her uncombed curls flapping against her cheeks. ‘TaTa,’ she repeated stubbornly and flapped her arms.
‘Wings,’ Zande guessed and was met with yet another glare. Leaning forward, he pulled a silver chain from the neck of the child’s dress. ‘What does it say?’
Yöst read out, ‘Tatania. She has to be foreign.’ Zande frowned not understanding. ‘We are also foreigners,’ Yöst explained patiently, ‘it means people from another country.’
‘Yes. TaTa,’ she confirmed.
3
Yöst picked up a piece of half-cooked fish and stripped the flesh from its skin with his tongue, relishing its greasy taste. ‘We may have to leave the island.’
Once again dawn had woken him It was colder and a keen wind frisked around his bare legs making the decision for him. The only clothes he possessed were a pair of torn trousers and a man’s jacket, its one sleeve singed away. Zande was in a similar state, his shirt and shorts more suited to summer’s warmth, his tattered jersey full of holes. They needed heat and a proper shelter. Anxiously, he inspected their supply of wood, aware the pile had dwindled to almost nothing. Tossing a morsel of twig onto the fire, he watched it flare up in a fragile spurt of warmth. Soon, autumn gales would be upon them and then they would need to burn the timbers of their shelter for heat. Then what? He swallowed, feeling sick, aware of what he must do. He had known all along, and had just been too cowardly to face it.
Shuffling awkwardly, he eased himself back into the shelter. Tatania was beginning to stir, her face rosy with sleep. He tried to remember her mother but the image wouldn’t come; nothing, except for a bloody shape spread-eagled on the ground. Yet discovering the little girl didn’t cry, forcing Yöst or Zande to placate her and dry her noisy tears, he considered one of their few successes. Nothing seemed to faze her, not once they had learned to pronounce her name correctly, provided one of them stayed close enough to feed her milk. And that was all they had; bread almost a distant memory.
For Yöst, used to days speeding by as fast as a shooting star and equally as diverting, the previous few days had felt like a funeral procession, his words weighed and balanced then, for the most part, held back and not given utterance at all. For the first two days, Zande had scarcely moved until nightfall, patiently watching the skies. Only the child appeared able to break his concentration, Zande gathering her up and rocking her closely in his arms, singing a lullaby. On the third, he had turned away from the sky and shown Yöst how to catch fish.
‘My mother used a piece of twine,’ he said, tying a wriggling pink worm to a long stem of grass. Wading into the water, he waited patiently for fish to gather, nudging each other away from the food, before skilfully flicking their silvery bodies onto the beach.
There had been other successes which Yöst added to his prayer list at night, conscious without them survival might have proved a forlorn hope. That first day, searching the ruins of the village, he had found a piece of galvanised roofing and a broken spade, its solid wood handle defeating even the fire. Coaxing the still-smoking timbers into a blaze, he had used its flat blade to carry them to their shelter, burying the whelks and crabs they had gathered in its embers, and using the galvanised sheet to ward off any rain. They had gone to bed that night with the daylight, their full stomachs making it easy to sleep.
Leaning down, he picked up the little girl. She smelled of pe
e, her bedcover stiff where the sharp liquid had dried. ‘Breakfast.’ He backed out on his hands and knees, clutching her warm body to his chest, miserably aware she felt lighter than the day before, and praying it was imagination.
‘I don’t want to go. I want to stay here ’til they come back.’ Zande flashed a glance from under his eyelashes, concentrating on his piece of fish.
Yöst dipped a beaker in the creamy liquid, holding it to the small child’s lips. She gulped noisily, presenting the two boys with a milk-coated smile between mouthfuls.
‘Mother said they always return,’ Zande continued his argument.
He tossed his fish skin towards a seagull only to see it stolen away by another bird. An acrimonious squabble broke out, the two gulls snatching it back and forth. Amused, Tatania gurgled contentedly.
Yöst sighed, speaking gently, ‘I told you yesterday, they won’t be back this year.’
Zande’s reaction was not unexpected; had he been a small boy, he would doubtless have proved equally as stubborn. Besides, it made good sense not to move from a place you were familiar with, unless you were forced. He pointed up at the sky, seeking corroboration for his words, the ominous bank of grey closer than it had been the day before. ‘Remember, I said when the sky grows light again. That’s when they will return.’
The Click of a Pebble Page 3