Unaware of his action, he covered his ears, desperate to block out the sound of screaming that woke him in the night.
‘Yöst?’
He heard her take two steps toward him and felt her arm clasp his shoulders, her fingers gripping him tightly. He leaned towards her, finding courage in the warmth of her body. Removing his hands from his ears, he let them drop to his sides again. ‘When it was over, it was so silent I thought I had gone deaf.’
Even the noisy cawing of the rooks had been silenced as if they too were showing their respect for the dead. Next minute, that silence was broken by the sound of the little girl sucking at her fingers, and once again he had felt the rough surface of the tombstone against his back, the child’s body curved securely against his. ‘I heard them leave.’
‘Who, Yöst? Who do you mean by them?’
‘I don’t know,’ he repeated, feeling the lie rise up again and choke him. ‘I never saw them,’ he panted out. ‘When I got back to our village, it was deserted. I went searching …’ he bit his lip, ‘I found bodies, nothing else.’
‘How—’
‘I didn’t know about Zande then,’ he raced on, ignoring Pascual’s interruption in his eagerness to liberate words that had been festering in his brain for weeks now. ‘They had thrown the bodies over a cliff. All except two. One was Willem, a friend of mine.’ He paused, ashamed to admit, even to Pascual, that his first conscious thought had been: who would wake him in the mornings now that Willem was dead? ‘We were asleep when they set fire to our cabin. Willem broke down the wall and told us to run.’ His voice cracked and he swallowed down his anguish. ‘The other was Ta…’ He felt Pascual’s fingers stroking lightly up and down his arm, offering gentle reassurance that the bad things were in the past now and in time would be forgotten.
‘Tatania’s mother … he left her body by the side of a tree where she fell.’
‘Who did?’
‘The man who killed her.’ Just in time Yöst caught back the words that would condemn them, and send them searching for sanctuary elsewhere. How could he confess to Pascual that a priest from their church was behind the killings? How could anyone believe something so far-fetched? Even he didn’t. Yet he had experienced the bat wings, recognising them again in the voluminous folds of the priest’s cloak. There was no mistake. A priest had slain the little girl’s mother. ‘I dragged their bodies to the fire to burn them. I know I shouldn’t have …’ His voice broke. ‘I couldn’t bury them; I had no tools.’
‘Is that what this is about, the sad face … not sleeping? Waking before dawn?’
‘I usually wake before dawn. It’s not that. It’s … You see … burning’s not allowed. Only heathens are burned.’
Releasing his shoulder, Pascual held out her hands to the rain, the heavy drops splashing onto her open palms. Rubbing them dry on her apron, she picked up her rolling pin. ‘I had nightmares for months when I first came to this country. We all did,’ she added, noticing Yöst’s pinched expression. ‘No wonder you act older than twelve. What you faced is something no child should see, let alone be left to deal with.’
‘But the burning?’ he protested.
The curtain rattled and Katarina walked into the kitchen. Pascual rolled her eyes, signalling her to go away. Her sister nodded and backed out, letting the curtain swing to behind her.
Lifting the lump of dough onto a board, she began rolling it flat, pounding it with her rolling pin as if it was guilty of some crime and deserved punishment. ‘We were bombed. People died in the ruins of their houses. People we knew and had grown up with; gone to school with. We left them unburied and fled to safety. Victims as you were, innocent of any blame.’
‘You sure?’ Yöst fell silent, his gaze wide, begging.
‘Absolutely.’ Pascual picked up the sheet of dough slapping it back on the table, ‘Only those who carry out the crime can ever be held responsible, never their victims.’
Relief swept through him like warm air, easing the chill from his body. ‘Do I really look older than twelve?’
‘Not look, behave. You can’t carry the problems of the entire world on your shoulders, Yöst. Go and play with your brother and sister, and try being a child for a change.’
Pushing back the half-door on its hinges, he stuck his head out, staring up at the sky, the relief at speaking out on a par with waking to a fresh new morning. ‘Is it ever going to stop?’
Pascual wiped her floury fingers down her apron. ‘Go and speak to Adelita. She says tomorrow.’
The following day, the skies broke and lightened. A wind had sprung up in the night chasing the rain-soaked clouds north. Pascual and Katarina spent the day washing clothes, the twins in charge of the clothes line, a strong wind ravelling the laundry into tight knots.
‘Make sure the clothes pegs don’t come loose. I’m not spending another day washing,’ Pascual threatened.
Yöst was reading to Tatania. Hearing Rico’s voice in the yard, he peered out through the open shutter, a keen breeze fluttering the pages of his book.
‘What?’
‘Pa wants the last of the apples stripped today. You coming?’
Eager to escape the confines of the house, he cast aside the book he was using and jumped to his feet.
Picking it up again, the little girl patted its pages. ‘Book.’
‘When I come back,’ he said, ignoring her obvious disappointment.
‘I don’t want to pick apples today,’ Zande said, his voice determined, ‘I want to play with TaTa.’
‘Is he really your brother?’ Rico asked as the two boys left the yard, swinging a stack of empty crates between them. The ground remained soggy, and they wore boots and jerseys against the chill. As they came out onto the hillside, a brisk wind hurried them along, ruffling the surface of puddles, and teasing Rico’s long hair into knots.
Yöst didn’t reply for a moment watching the changing colours in the sky, considering it a kindly jailer who had decided to open his cell door. Close at hand, he smelled goats’ dung. It mingled, not unpleasantly, with the rich scent of clover, their dark green leaves playing hopscotch between the rocks. At the bottom of the slope, the river both looked and sounded angry, grumbling aloud whenever its progress was stalled by leaves and branches brought down by the storms.
‘As good as.’ He sniffed again, a faint trace of exhaust assailing his nostrils. On the far side of the river, the old tractor ground slowly up the steep slope, belching out black smoke whenever it changed gear. Half-turning, he lifted his face to the wind, feeling it clean and fresh, this tiny corner of the universe newly born. ‘I’m responsible for him and TaTa. Except sometimes I have to get away. Be with kids my own age.’
He said the words on purpose, conscious how important his friendship was to Rico and no longer bothered by it. Quite the reverse; with Rico about, days were never quite so tedious nor as long, besides which it was a relief to escape Zande’s insatiable questioning.
As the trees of the orchard closed in, they were forced to slow their pace, picking their way cautiously over the windfalls, the insect-ridden fruit slimy after the rain.
‘Where do we start?’ Yöst asked, recognising several different varieties by their unique scent. Through the line of trees, he caught sight of Pepe’s red shirt and heard the rasp of a saw. ‘What’s he doing?’
‘Clearing the broken branches in the peach orchard; otherwise, we won’t have any fruit next year. Still, we’ve got the best job.’ Rico pointed to an apple tree, a ladder leaning against its trunk. ‘Ma has banned them both from climbing trees. Says they’re too old and too fat. Last year Pa fell and sprained his ankle. Ma was furious.’ Rico sniggered, enjoying the memory of his father’s humiliation. ‘She refused to have anything to do with him until it was better.’
Bending down, he pulled a wicker collecting basket from the topmost crate and handed it to Yöst. ‘So why was the priest after you? You never said.’
Startled by the question, Yöst spun round.
Skidding on the rotten fruit, he lost his balance crashing to the ground. A hornet that had been sleeping off its heavy meal, curled under the lip of a fallen leaf, rose into the air, buzzing belligerently.
Rico batted his arms to drive it away. ‘I hate them worse than anything. Ma uses vinegar to take out the sting but it doesn’t stop it hurting. Why won’t you tell me?’ His face a plaintive mask, he hauled Yöst to his feet. ‘I share my secrets. Besides, best friends don’t have secrets. And you promised you were my best friend.’
‘I am.’ Yöst said the words almost willingly. The words best friend no longer sounded intimidating and claustrophobic; rather the reverse, a state of permanence.
‘Then why won’t you?’
‘Because I can’t,’ he replied, remembering his conversation with Pascual. Even with her, he’d had to force shut the floodgates when they threatened to overwhelm him, leaving the question why was your village attacked, to mill around the kitchen and remain unanswered. ‘We need to get on. How about I start with this one?’ Freeing his hand, he patted the trunk of the tree, a shower of gold-tinted leaves spiralling gently down to the ground. Brushing them out of his hair, he indicated its neighbour, the ground around its trunk ringed with leaves and fruit that the rain had brought down. ‘You do that one. They’re the same variety.’
‘How come you’re an expert on apples all of a sudden?’ Rico responded spitefully.
Fixing the basket against his hip, Yöst adjusted the leather strap around his waist, mindful he was the cause of Rico’s touchiness. He glanced up apologetically, conscious of the hurt in his friend’s eyes and wishing he could offer an explanation. Rico was right. Best friends shouldn’t have secrets. If anyone deserved the truth he did, more so even than Pascual. Because of him whole moments passed when he forgot the island, on occasions even Willem’s homely countenance proved difficult to recollect when pitted against the powerful hawk-like features of Rico. Without replying, he leapt for the lowest branch and swung up into the tree. That was something else he daren’t speak about; that his sight and hearing far outstripped a human’s – his agility too.
Once among the branches, the fruit was easy to reach and for a while the two boys worked in silence, Rico remaining tight-lipped. Yöst sighed, aware his silence had hurt his friend, and felt ashamed, wishing it might be otherwise. Willem and Rue had argued about that very thing, Willem insisting that friends, real friends, could only come from within the clan, ‘Otherwise there’s bound to come a day when quarrels break out because of our secret.’
‘Don’t we ever tell?’ Yöst had asked.
‘Tell someone they are doomed to walk the earth, while we command both air and sea, as well as land?’
‘The women know.’
‘They don’t matter; they love whatever. The more beautiful you are, the more they love you. We men are very different; we compete to be the best. It’s natural. What about the cobs, you’ve seen them fight over a beautiful woman?’
He remembered how Rue had curtailed that argument, effectively shutting it down with his comment, ‘Almost to the death sometimes.’
Absentmindedly, he stretched full length across a bough, reaching for the last apple on the tree, the green globe tantalizingly out of reach. He shifted and felt the branch dip and bend.
‘Watch it. Ma’ll kill me if anything happens to you.’
Not replying, Yöst concentrated on imagining his bones and muscles having no more weight than a bird’s. It was something Rue had practised in preparation for his fledging. When Yöst had tried, he had found it made not a scrap of difference, his body obstinately heavy. Now, to his astonishment, he felt the branch level out as if the basket attached to his side had been empty rather than half-full of fruit. As he inched forward it sagged again and, quickly cupping the apple in his palm, he tugged it free.
Climbing back down, he waited for the noisy beating of his heart to subside. Was that yet another learned skill, being able to suspend your weight, or had his grandmother misled him? Was he twelve already … maybe even thirteen? Remembering what Pascual had said about his acting older, he began to worry that his grandmother had become confused. If he was thirteen already, it had been known for boys as young as fourteen or fifteen to change.
If only the carinatae had bothered about birthdays but no one ever did, observing only the seasons; spring when the cobs returned, followed by long summer days, and then autumn when they migrated to warmer climes. No one gave any thought to what day of the week it was, except for the women who worked on the mainland. He should have as well, because of attending school, but he was so busy playing, without their timely reminders he also would have forgotten. Living in such close proximity to the human world, they should have observed the same customs … for protection, if nothing else.
Maestro was right. If they were still at the farm … and if he did change early … how would he cope stuck amongst strangers?
‘Put them in the crate at the end. Ma said she’d tied a label to it.’ Rico called down to him.
‘Which one, there’s two? Cookers and eaters. Why cookers? Can’t you cook all apples?’
‘Hang on, I’m coming,’ Rico’s voice sounded out. ‘You’re not such a clever-clogs after all, if you don’t know the difference between cookers and eaters.’
Yöst heard the crack of the branch almost before it happened, sensing the rotten wood give way as Rico placed his weight on it. He dived forward to break the boy’s fall, his swift descent knocking Yöst once again to the ground.
‘You okay?’ he croaked, finding it difficult to talk with Rico spread-eagled on top of him. He breathed in the scent of his skin with its faint tang of sweat.
Rico climbed to his feet, grinning. ‘I wish you could see yourself; you don’t half look funny. Like the pig roast Ma made to celebrate the solstice last year. She cooked that in a bed of apples.’
Raising his head, Yöst saw his entire length enveloped in a vivid green carpet, and laughed.
‘If you’ve got time to laugh, you’re not working, you’re messing around.’ Ramon’s harsh tones reached them through the trees.
‘Forgot to warn you, Pa’s got eyes in the back of his head,’ Rico burst into giggles, stuffing his fist in his mouth to stem the noise. ‘Never had no one to laugh with before,’ he stuttered, wiping his streaming eyes on the sleeve of his jersey. He held out a hand, helping Yöst to his feet. Breaking eye contact, he knelt down and began to pick up the spilled apples. ‘That time in the market, I knew you were special; hoped I’d see you again.’
Yöst grinned, his concerns about his age forgotten in the warmth of Rico’s smile. ‘Me too,’ he confessed happily. Perched on his haunches, he swept the apples he’d picked back into the collecting basket.
‘Which one?’ he indicated the waiting crates.
‘Cookers.’
Jumping up, he began examining each apple carefully, checking to make sure it wasn’t bruised, before gently placing it in the crate.
Rico elbowed him playfully in the ribs. ‘Better not let Pa catch you working at that speed. He don’t pay for air. Besides, they ain’t grenades, they won’t explode.’
Ramon came into view between the trees, bowed down under the weight of the wood on his back, Pepe hauling a log like a mule. ‘We’re heading in. I’ve left you the cart.’ He stopped, staring up at the sky, a triangle of grey visible through the thick mat of branches. ‘May rain again later and I want that crop cleared. Finish up before you come in. We’ll keep you some dinner.’
16
The momentary relief offered by their expedition to the orchard was swept away as autumn tightened its grip and wind from the ocean tore across the hillside, stripping the last of the leaves and clattering the shutters.
Anxious to sell the last of his fruit and vegetables before the rains struck in earnest, Ramon ordered the carts loaded and headed out to market. Then without Rico to act as a buffer, Yöst found the beehive house a prison, its vast floor- space shrunk to tiny pr
oportions filled with noisy chattering inmates, and once daily lessons were over, he took to roaming the hillside, uncaring about the weather, his future once again bleak and sterile.
He knew how deadly dull his lessons were, with few books and only a slate and chalk to use for arithmetic. Stoically, he stammered and bluffed his way through, aware the two ten-years-old weren’t interested, yet knew enough to tease him whenever he made a mistake. Nevertheless, it was Adelita shouting out, ‘If I hear you ask what are ten times seven again, I shall burn every book in the house,’ that made him cast paper and pencil aside and run out of the house, uncaring of the trouble that might await his return.
Stopping long enough to put on a jacket, he searched for his shoes amidst the long line of boots and shoes lining one side of the corridor. At first, the precision of the arrangement didn’t register, busily trying to lever his growing feet into boots rapidly becoming too small. Pascual had awarded the job of tidying them to Zande and he had arranged them in height order, their symmetry ruined by the middle one of the line. Toppled over, it lay crooked on the ground.
‘A one-legged sailor no doubt.’
It was Willem’s voice, so loud and clear, Yöst was convinced if he turned around, he would find him standing there.
A sense of abandonment struck, fierce and painful, and then he was out in the yard and racing up through the meadow, his wellingtons skidding on the water-logged grass. Pounding feet echoed through the bones of his skull as memory carried him back into the past, to the day when a gale transformed the usually placid divide, between island and mainland, into a roaring inferno of fume and spray. Unable to launch the rowing boat, the six of them had taken off, running full-tilt towards the far side of the island, eager to see what treasures the sea had washed ashore, shells and seaweed strewn across the sand and rocks like wedding confetti.
And boots.
It was always boots the tide washed ashore in a gale. Willem had taken to arranging these in a neat line under the cliff, ‘to see how far they stretched’, although there were never two matching. On that day, the sea had proved more than usually generous, littering the beach with lengths of wood that had once been part of a polished spar, bearing topsails and foresails, a table and wooden chairs too broken to be of any use, and a chest full of women’s clothing.
The Click of a Pebble Page 18