The Letter Bearer

by Robert Allison

  They pass into a valley between two forested slopes, its floor thick with rockfall, and under Swann’s direction they abandon the ravine’s floor to begin their ascent of the hillside. Again the rider struggling to keep up, distrustful of his own body, wary of sudden failure. Even Lucchi clambers past, saddled with his poultry like a doltish bumpkin to market. And then Brinkhurst, with his backpack of vanities. Neither of them pausing to offer assistance or voice concern as he clings vainly to those occasional handholds – an uprooted tree, a node of rock – that prevent him slithering back down into the valley.

  He pauses to muster his energy and looks up towards a ledge jutting from the hillside, thinking at first that the figures leaning from it are saplings. When he recognises them as human he freezes. A small group of dark-skinned and turbaned fellows swathed in white cloths, several holding rifles the length of walking sticks. He thinks at first of raising the alarm, then decides against it, urging himself instead to greater haste in recovering the distance to the others.

  By the time he pulls himself into their company, he finds the deserters paused upon a narrow escarpment, their observers already noted. ‘Senussi rebels,’ says Brinkhurst. ‘Probably been here since the Ities rounded most of them up for work camps. I doubt they’re any threat. Not unless they think we have something of value.’

  ‘That’s you fucked then,’ says Swann, with unsettling reason.

  They move on, casting the occasional, nervous glance upward as they navigate the escarpment to make for the next tier of stone. The Senussi disappearing now and then only to materialise again a little farther across the upper slopes, their path bringing them gradually closer as they keep pace. A rangy half-dozen, thinks the rider, each of them treading with a goat’s sureness, their robes overbound with bandoliers, belts tucked with blade sheaths. The classic portrait of banditry, yet lacking that keenness of intent.

  The Senussi track them across a narrow vale of sedge and maquis, their route taking them across the wide roof of a hillside cave, its pink-black interior mottled like dog gums. They move with near silence, only occasionally giving reminder of their presence with a quick utterance or the report of a hardwood butt against stone. Weapons-girded Trappists, decides the rider, austere in their devotions. So unremarkable does their shadowing become that by the time the deserters embark upon a narrow causeway, they are careless of the Senussis’ presence on the overlooking ridge, their interest presumed by now to be no more than curiosity.

  The first stone goes almost unnoticed, taken by all to be a small slippage from the mountainside. And then a second and a third missile clatter down, bringing the deserters quickly to the realisation of an assault, each man cowering and looking to the fellow nearest for example. It takes only a few seconds for it to dawn that there is only one target among them, the hapless Lucchi subjected to a steadily increasing barrage as he struggles to support the chicken cage. One rock strikes him on the shoulder, and another behind the ear. Then one to his shin, the impact causing him to lose his footing and slip to one knee.

  Swann swears and puts down the Bren. He unslings the rifle from his shoulder, the action quickly stayed by Brinkhurst. No point in making things worse. We don’t have to be involved.

  The Senussi hurl more stones, Lucchi raising his hands to shield his head, the chickens’ wild flapping further unbalancing him. Swann continues to watch in silence as the Italian again attempts to stand, another stone glancing off his left knee, causing him to yelp and buckle. When yet another spins off his temple to leave an ugly laceration, the lance corporal is able to abstain no longer. He marches swiftly over to the felled POW and at once positions himself as a shield, daring his assailants to continue with a look guaranteeing all hell should they try.

  A further lone missile falls wayward of him. And then stillness, the barrage ceasing so abruptly that the Prophet himself might have appeared to raise a staying hand. The Senussi one by one dropping their arms to their sides before sullenly retiring.

  Swann turns to Lucchi, the Italian wiping blood from his eye. ‘Come on then. Lazy-arse shite. Up you get.’

  The Italian struggles to rise, his knee giving out beneath him as he looks around in bewilderment.

  Swann delivers a lazy kick to his hip, unbalancing him further. ‘So that’s you done for now then, is it? A wee knock and that’s your lot?’

  He kicks the POW again, the impact causing him to begin sliding from the pathway and down onto the grassed slope beyond.

  Brinkhurst clears his throat. ‘Swann. We should move on.’

  Seeing Lucchi slip further, the rider hurries forward to place a supporting hand beneath his elbow until he can secure his footing. He waits until the POW is back on his feet and withdraws without engaging Swann’s glare, leaving the shaken Italian to adjust the cage on his back and hobble to his place in the troop.

  Swann watches with scorn, a quick shake of his head signalling the episode closed. He picks up the Bren and leads them briskly from the causeway.

  ‘That might have been a mistake,’ says Brinkhurst, close at his heels. ‘Those people own these hills.’

  ‘Used to,’ says the lance corporal, not looking back.

  They climb higher, the circumference of a fading sun sharpening as they move towards it. Surveying the terrain below, they can see a deep threadwork of gorges and canyons, their grooves and bights shrouded by an abundance of forest. There might be fruit trees on the higher escarpments, even orchards. They might see rainfall, the dream of every desert wanderer. Easy now to appreciate Brinkhurst’s ambitions towards domicile here, the tricks and confusions of nature so mischievous that no armed force could hope to capture the area fully. The hillsides are overrun with bolt-holes and warrens, hiding places aplenty masked by blinds of camelthorn and tamarisk. They’ll be able to blend here as never before, become as unremarkable as any native homesteader or herdsman. Here they might disappear in plain sight.

  Lucchi is defeated, able to go no further. The strain and discomfort of the chicken cage, the shock of the barrage upon him. He struggles manfully to pull himself upright after sitting heavily upon a hummock, but after several pained efforts resigns himself, offering only a disconsolate ‘Un momento’.

  There’s to be no further argument over the chickens, and Mawdsley is assigned the duty of execution, this time meeting no protest from Lucchi as he lifts the cage from his shoulders. Perhaps, thinks the rider, because the Italian presumes freedom for the birds. Only when the MO drags the first of them out by its neck does he see the intent and raise his voice in pleading, his hands clasped. All that effort for nothing. Mawdsley spins the chicken by its neck, quickly breaking it, and then repeats the same with the second, completing the slaughter as efficiently as tying a ligature. He drops the birds at Lucchi’s feet, the POW close to tears. Was there ever so pitiful a captive? The rider regards him with near contempt. A normal reaction, he assures himself, towards the weak and the bullied. A primal instinct rather than any failing of character.

  The group move on, Lucchi encouraged by a sharp kick from Swann to take up the dead chickens. They have an objective in sight now, a broad and flat summit standing proud of neighbouring plateaux. Perhaps it will allow them a view of the coast, only a few miles distant. They can make camp there before sundown, then scout tomorrow for a suitable location for their new den. It should all be plain sailing from now on, assures Brinkhurst. Definitely the right thing to come here, no question about it.

  But for the rider, their goal might just as well be a mirage, that familiar, devastating depletion of energy once again cutting him down. Though at least this time there is some warning for it, the slowing blood and failing synapses signalled with the onset of blurring vision and light-headedness. He sits heavily then leans onto his side, able this time to raise a short distress call.

  Mawdsley moves to attend him. No, he doesn’t need water. No, of course he can’t get up! What a stupid question. The MO looks to Brinkhurst and gives a small shake of his head.
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  Brinkhurst sighs and dumps his luggage. They can’t go on like this, it’s ridiculous. Is this the end of him, or what? The ex-captain points up to the plateau. ‘You know where we’re headed; you can catch us up when you feel up to it. All clear?’

  The rider nods. Quite.

  Mawdsley stands over him, crowned with sunlight. ‘Don’t try to move on until you feel strong enough. Stop if there’s any chest pain. And give yourself rest breaks, don’t try to make the whole distance at once.’

  There’s nothing else to be said. Not even the opportunity for the rider to offer any stoicisms, a ‘Yes, of course you must go on without me’, or, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be on your tail in no time’. The deserters already returned to their procession towards the mountaintop.

  Until Brinkhurst notices that Lucchi is not with them, their POW now seated by the rider, his baggage carelessly thrown off.

  The ex-captain drops his head in weariness. ‘Swann . . .’

  No further complaint is necessary, the lance corporal quick to set down the Bren and advance to the seated Italian, his rifle already unslung. He points the barrel at Lucchi’s chest. ‘Not fucken going to say it twice. Get up.’

  ‘I stay,’ says Lucchi meekly. He points to the rider. ‘For him.’

  Swann shuffles forward. ‘You know I mean it.’

  And still the Italian doesn’t move, his fingers gripping the rock he sits on. The rider ought to be touched by his loyalty. Rather, he finds it slightly absurd.

  Swann lunges out and drags at Lucchi’s shirt in an attempt to haul him from his perch. Instead he unbalances himself and tumbles across the Italian in apostolic embrace. Brinkhurst steps forward. ‘All right, all right. You can’t shoot him, Swann, for God’s sake. We can’t carry everything ourselves.’ He takes the rifle from his shoulder then squats at the rider’s side and hands it to him. He nods towards Lucchi. ‘If he tries to run, shoot him. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes,’ says the rider. ‘I’ll shoot him.’

  ‘’Course he’ll run,’ says Swann, dusting himself down. ‘They both will.’

  ‘We’ll expect to see you at the camp tonight,’ continues Brinkhurst. ‘We’re taking all the food with us, so if you want to eat that’s where you’ll need to be.’ He scrutinises the rider’s face for any marker of intent. Then stands and hauls his haversack up about his shoulders before heading off, followed in short course by the archdeacon – who takes up the dead chickens – and a chagrined Swann. Within minutes all three have navigated around a sandstone corbel and vanished into higher forest.

  The rider looks across to Lucchi, who offers a thin smile in return. A polite coyness between them where there ought to be a friendship. The rider isn’t sure what to say. Thank you for risking death on my behalf, but whatever for? He pulls himself more upright and rests the rifle across his lap. ‘You should go now. While you have the chance.’

  Lucchi stares at him, making doubly sure he has the meaning.

  ‘That’s right. Run. Away from here.’ The rider sweeps his arm vaguely outward. ‘Bloody disappear. If you have any sense.’

  ‘E lei?’ asks Lucchi, perplexed. And then: ‘I stay.’ He holds a brief silence and then begins to gather together the packs and bags at his feet. ‘Is better.’

  The rider watches, uncertain whether his benefactor is being calculating or asinine. If his plan was to make a break, then his defiance was well judged. But now to remain here, on the grounds of misplaced sentiment? It’s addled thinking.

  Lucchi gestures towards the rider’s postbag. ‘Potrei vedere?’ Might I see?

  The rider pushes over the bag of letters and watches as the Italian proceeds with an archivist’s care.

  ‘Tutti morti?’

  ‘Yes,’ says the rider. All dead.

  Lucchi appears struck by melancholy as he picks up the photograph of Coates. ‘Very sorry,’ he says, showing the picture. He abandons his search of the postbag and reaches into a pocket of his tunic to withdraw a piece of folded notepaper. ‘Potreste?’ he asks. Could you . . .?

  The rider nods and accepts the folded paper, glancing at the addressed outer leaf before slipping it into his postbag. Another unwanted commission. The irony of it apparently obscure to all but himself.

  ‘Grazie. Grazie molto.’

  The Italian proceeds to make a small reconnaissance of the area, the rider wondering whether he means to steal them both away down the mountainside. A prospect which both excites and disturbs him. What if they should encounter the Senussi again, their attack this time pressed to a fatal conclusion? He might be left alone in some casket of leaves to die of cold and starvation. The same fate as Coates. Could anything be worse?

  In the event, his speculations are baseless. When he shoulders his rifle and declares himself ready to push on, the POW collects whatever might be carried and leads him in the direction of the deserters’ travel. Perhaps more the pragmatist than the rider had thought. He might have explained as much in his letter.

  Or perhaps he had simply offered some proof of himself, a spirited testimonial.

  Beloved wife,

  Know that I am trying to make my way back to you. But it is not easy.

  I have been taken prisoner by men who have run from their own army. I will not call them soldiers. They are taking me up to the summit of a mountain, where I think we must sit and gaze at the sea until any sign of war is gone. They say I have done terrible things but you know that it is not in my nature to act against my conscience. All lies will wither.

  So I will sit on this peak as they command, and close my eyes to them, and think only of how I might return to you a better man.

  . . .

  14

  The last of daylight is already gone when the rider and Lucchi make their final ascent, the slopes redefined in moonlight. Through a crosshatch of cypress branches the rider can see a sky set with stars, the most prominent oriented as though to map the mountainry they are hung to. Far to the west there must be armies of men huddled in their slit trenches, similarly diverted. To the distant north his wife might be gazing now from her cottage window to the same brilliant vertices. No more than an acute between them, a pittance of degree.

  Still they are forced to intervals after each measure of claimed ground, Lucchi waiting patiently while the rider sits to recover his breath. ‘Un altro po’ di tempo?’ the Italian will ask, when sensing the rider is ready to move on. Yes, we can try again, the rider will say, wondering during his most stubborn efforts if he has ever before climbed to such a height, the thought eliciting a pang of grief for any such triumphs wiped from the record.

  Lucchi takes his arm to lead him onto the lower steps of the plateau, tracts of woodland giving way to a thin gravel punctuated by barrows of stone. Proceeding onto level ground, they discover once again a new country, the remnants of some ancient citadel strewn about the summit as its capital. Wind-blunted foundation blocks of ancient halls and chambers, the frames of disembodied archways, crumbled towers, squares described by fractured colonnades. Some elegant metropolis shaken apart and dispersed over the plain as though by divine action. An earthquake, perhaps, or some dreadful tempest. They pause for a time to take in the scope of it, then make their way past laurel bushes into the city grounds, awed by the decayed stoneworks of Gymnasium and Forum, Agora and Prytaneum. They move over mosaicked floors and walkways, peer across the hemispherical cavea of an Odeon and tour a rank of headless and wingless statuary to arrive at the marble prow of a trireme, its shadow laid out in polygons.

  Both men take a moment to scan the outlying terrain, neither able to see any sign of the others. But then the city’s remains appear to extend over the entire length of the plateau, perhaps several miles in distance. The party could have established themselves at its farthest reaches. The rider catches Lucchi’s eye and points a finger northward. They should press on.

  They trek over loose earth and through thick esparto grass, careful of their footing, the entire plateau cobbled with debr
is. The payload from a single heavy bomber might achieve much the same, thinks the rider. A city eradicated in a single onslaught. Similar scenes might be fresh throughout the countries of Europe, over the length and breadth of Britain. The letter written by Tuck’s wife had made no report of raids, but then it had been written months ago. Everything might have changed. The factory she works in might have been bombed, the street she lives on, perhaps even her house. A dreadful notion. How is she coping, this woman whose character he has borrowed from to create his imaginary ideal? How is her health? Is she eating well enough? Is she warm enough? What if those trips outside for water should aggravate her chest ailment?

  It’s why he has to be away from here. He needs information, reports, testimony. If nothing else, newspapers.

  So bedevilling, this absence of proof.

  They continue on until their crossing brings them finally to the northernmost ledge of the escarpment. Below it are a series of rock shelves, each dense with broken city, the lowest boundary giving way to a gentle declivity that runs out to the flat coastlands. Prominent among the ruins is the elongated base of a temple, its plot demarked by pale and severed chimneys, while around it stretches a honeycomb of breached chambers, detached entranceways and cryptic groundworks, tall cypresses here and there ornamenting the collapse. On the highest step there is the raised gyre of an amphitheatre, likely the venue for gladiatorial games. Perhaps if the spirits of its fallen now looked on they would applaud the deserters. Let every combatant throw down his arms! Let all run to sanctuary!

  Lucchi points to a steady flicker of light, and they see that the deserters have set up station next to the temple and before a monumental fountain, the flanks of its basin overwatched by a pair of white marble lions. They have a small campfire burning, rolls of bedding unfurled close by. Bold of them, thinks the rider, to signal so readily their presence here.