The Wish Kin

by Joss Hedley

  He opens his eyes and slides a glance sideways to Jeune. Her eyes are still closed, but open after a moment.

  ‘Once,’ she says, ‘when the sun was red like that, it was because there were fires burning in the bush. Now it is because the land is burning, because the earth itself is aflame.’

  Colm nods, says nothing. She didn’t hear, he thinks, relieved. But later, when they are back in the dugout, he thinks that it would be good if she could hear him. He follows this thought, realises that if Jeune could converse in the Inner Speech then they could be together always, not just when they were standing next to one another.

  But, he thinks, can such a thing happen? Can the Inner Speech be heard at a distance greater than a few metres?

  Moss, he says, to test it. Where are you?

  He hears nothing but the scrape of wood upon metal as Freya stirs soup in a pot over the fire.

  Moss, he says again. Are you outside?

  He listens, tuning out the sounds of the activity around him – the sharpness of steel cutting root, the rush of fabric against skin, the touch of dust upon hair.

  Then he hears, Yes.

  Whereabouts?

  A moment.

  On the hill above the gorge.

  It is good, he thinks. The hill is two or three kilometres away. It is very good.

  Is everything all right? he hears.

  Gander, he says. And for you?

  Gander. Then, Do you know where Lydia is?

  She’s here with me, says Moss. She’s been telling me about your aunt in Wonding.

  Lyd?

  Colm.

  How far can you see in the dark?

  I can see the glow of fire on the horizon.

  Again there is silence. Then Moss speaks.

  We need to leave here, Colm, he says.

  Colm nods slowly, though the others can’t see him.

  Yes, he says.

  • • •

  A final walk with Jeune through the rubble of the village. He knows it is the last, knows that they will leave at any time. They kick their way through stones, watch the fragments crumble as they hit the ground.

  ‘Freya wants me to stay here with her,’ says Jeune.

  ‘Will you?’ asks Colm.

  Jeune stops walking and looks about the desiccated village with something like fondness. Colm turns on the ball of his foot and looks at her. The sun is behind her, burning the edges of her copper hair red.

  ‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘I think so.’

  Colm nods, furrows his brow.

  ‘Will is thinking of staying, too,’ she adds. ‘Later, when it gets too hard here, we may head south.’

  ‘To your father?’

  Jeune looks away. ‘Yes,’ she says vaguely.

  She picks up a scrap of pottery, a broken triangle of plate, spits on it, rubs the dust from its surface. A little pattern of blue emerges, a tiny blue bridge beneath a blue willow. ‘Pretty,’ she says, and puts it in her pocket. Colm watches her walk, watches the delicate placement of her foot, the slender turn of her ankle.

  Jeune! Jeune!

  This time he knows he has not merely thought it. He knows he has called out her name. He is still, does not move, and waits.

  Jeune stops, turns her head to one side as though listening, flicks her shoulders briefly, sighs and continues to walk. Little puffs of orange dust cloud her footsteps. Her arms swing lightly at her sides. Colm exhales a smile and steps after her. He is not unhappy.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Colm, Lydia and Moss use the Inner Speech now more and more. At first it was for practical reasons when long stretches of ground separated them. But even now when they are travelling together side by side along the valley floor, or passing in single file through the narrow openings in the rock, they find themselves drawn to the Inner Speech. There is a gradual ease to it, Colm finds, and a comfort in this ease.

  And a part of him is aware of his need at this point for comfort. Jeune is behind him now, three days’ walk to the west. As are Freya and Will. Colm thinks of the lovely Jeune and feels the emptiness of his heart fill slowly with a muddy sadness. He misses her, misses all of them, yearns for the closeness they had, the patterns, the constancy, the order.

  You knew it was only for a time, Lydia says to him. And he has to agree. But the mud does not dry out and turn to dust to blow away and leave his heart clear. It sits there, heavy and dark, and seems strangely to spread throughout his body and into his mind. He tries to rally himself, to think of the job they have to do, of how they must get to Wonding so they can be there for Father and for the Rekindling, and often this works. But just as often he finds himself despairing of ever reaching their destination, so overcome is he by the exhaustion of the journey and the hardness of it after the gentle time in Burren. He falls asleep at night talking to Jeune with the Inner Speech, telling her of his day, asking her about her own. He does not know if she can hear him but still he speaks to her in the hope that she might.

  How much longer to the plateau? he asks Moss one morning. They are walking through the valley, the very one Freya showed them that Sunday morning from the outskirts of Burren, the very one which inspired Colm to sing a future song. They had hoped for a small stream of water here at the base of the grand, striking walls, but they have found little more than a smear of puddle on the ground. Their water bottles are almost dry now, and they are supplementing their moisture intake with the bitter juice from the spiky grey succulents that grow higher up on the stones of the gorge. But the plan is to reach the plateau; Freya assured them that a settlement of some sort lay on its far side.

  Moss stops and takes his pack from his shoulders, shades his eyes from the sun. The plateau sits, square and neat, directly ahead of them.

  Should be there by nightfall, says Moss. Make the climb tomorrow.

  Colm squats on the rock beside Moss. Lydia takes three small brown cakes from her pack and hands them one each. They converse in the Inner Speech as they eat, speak of the lie of the land, of the hope of water, of the distance yet to journey. Moss peels the patch from his eye, dabs it with ointment. Lydia thinks it looks better.

  Gradually, they become aware of a faint humming. They stop chewing, listen, and realise they have been hearing the sound for some time.

  What is it? asks Lydia. They stand and look about them, along the valley, up the stone walls, into the air. A silver light appears in the sky, a bright glint travelling across the pan of blue.

  ‘A plane!’ says Colm, slipping in his excitement into the Outer Speech.

  But how? asks Lydia. How can there be enough fuel?

  Moss shrugs. Who knows, he says.

  The plane passes the sun and the glint of light on its surfaces eases. The children can see now the gleaming body of the aircraft far above them, the crest of blue and yellow on its tail.

  Moss quietens when he sees the crest. It is the Clan, he says.

  Do you think they are looking for us? asks Colm.

  I don’t know, says Moss, but we mustn’t take chances.

  The plane begins a descent, its engines thrumming, and eases itself down behind the plateau. The children are alone again in the widening valley.

  Half an hour later they hear again the sound of heaving engines, and see the plane rise from behind the plateau and into the air. They watch it make its way northeast, slicing itself into the sky, leaving no trace, no wake, only the memory of hum in their ears, the flash of silver on their retinas. Then almost as soon as it has disappeared into the white horizon, another plane, somewhat larger, though bearing the same blue and yellow crest, ascends from behind the plateau and follows the same course.

  The planes fly back and forth throughout the afternoon. As the children draw nearer to the plateau, the noise of the engines becomes louder, the crests on the tails clearer. The children are careful to be still when a plane is overhead: they do not wish to be caught again.

  Evening and the walls of the plateau loom above them. They
are steep, sheer. There is little in the way of foot- or handholds. It is too late to climb today in the gloom, Moss says, so they take off their packs and settle in for the night, the sound of the planes overhead accompanying them into an uneasy sleep.

  • • •

  The sun is well up when they wake, the plateau acting as a huge curtain against the rising light. A plane thrusts skywards above them, its belly flashing light.

  The wall of rock before them is grey and cold with the remnants of night. The sun has not yet reached it. Colm shivers in his thin shirt and looks nervously at the gradient of the plateau’s base. Even this seems impossibly steep. His stomach turns over itself with fear.

  Moss is standing a little to the side, looking up, around. His face is crossed with trouble. Lydia goes to him. What is it? she asks.

  This wall, says Moss. The plateau. It’s foolish to think of climbing it. It’s too steep. And if we made it safely to the top we would be too exposed. The planes would pick us out at once.

  Can we go round? asks Lydia.

  So much further. It will add days to the journey. And there’s so much scrub and brush.

  Maybe there’ll be a moraine, says Colm. Or something like a moraine. If we walk a little to the north something may show itself. It may not be as steep further along as it is here.

  Yes, says Moss. It’s a possibility. Though we’ll have to be careful as we near the top.

  They walk north along the base of the plateau through dense and brittle scrub. The dead branches catch their clothing, their hair, their skin as they walk, tearing and scratching. By the afternoon they are covered in cuts and rasps of blood and still the walls above them are too steep to climb. They wrap clothes about their faces to shield against the scrub. The heat of the day is trapped against their skin, suffocating them.

  In the afternoon, the scrub takes on a more distinct form. A forest of tea-trees, their trunks like closed fists, lies in their path. The trees stand with only breaths between them, their skin smooth and pale, their sullen foliage brushing the sky. The children tilt their heads upwards and look in despair at the trees, for there seems to be no way through, until Moss, in his canniness, his cleverness, hurls his pack high into the branches so that its weight bows down the slender trunks towards the ground and he hurls himself into the scrappy leaves. ‘Come on!’ he shouts, and Lydia follows him, climbs over his pack, over Moss’s wiry body, and hurls her own burden forwards, pressing further trees to the ground. Then it is Colm who climbs over and hurls, who plunges his body after the grey blanket into the madness of leaves – and so they make their way through the thickness, climbing over and hurling, like a difficult and particularly strenuous game of leapfrog, until they have battered a swathe through the tight vegetation, until they are standing straight once again on solid ground.

  They tire, and so rest. It is afternoon, late, and they have not heard a plane for some time. The drone, when they do hear it, is quieter now for the distance between them and the aircraft. Strangely, Colm finds himself wishing it was louder.

  By evening there is still no sign of an easier way up the walls and the children collapse, exhausted, at the plateau’s foot. Their food and water are low, they need nourishment – and soon – before their strength runs out completely. They sleep fitfully, their growing hunger and thirst an impediment to the depth of dreams.

  The following afternoon the sharpness of the plateau base softens and they look again at the possibilities of climbing. Above they can see rucks in the rocks, small but of a size that they might insert a hand, a foot, and heave themselves higher. Beyond this the wall of rock breaks into gravel, and beyond this still, higher up near the crest of the square mountain, splotches of green.

  The tops of plateaux are often fertile places, says Moss. Who knows what we might find up there.

  They begin the climb at once, despite the lowering sun. They are happy for the chance at last to make their way upwards, to hasten their journey. Still, the climb is hard and they rest frequently. When they do, they turn their faces to the west, to where the land is spread with the purple light of sunset, and gasp at the beauty of it all. Colm follows the valley with his eyes back to where he imagines Burren to be. Is all well? he asks of Jeune. He listens, his ears tuned to her voice, to the lilt of it, the gentleness, but he hears nothing.

  Halfway up, the ground flattens a little, becomes something that could almost be called a path. They walk with a little more ease, despite the exhaustion each of them feels, the hunger and the thirst. Colm looks only at the slice of ground directly beneath him, at the hardness of it, the dryness. His tongue is swollen in his mouth, feels like a parched sponge. He imagines a glass of water, the coolness of it against his lips, the sweetness as it meets his mouth, the wonder as it washes over his tongue and travels down his throat. This is the thirstiest I have ever been, he thinks. I have never been thirstier.

  The purple sky darkens to grey and night is here. The moon, though, is bright, lends light to their path. Shadows bend and break about them. A night-bird passes and calls.

  They stop at last just short of the crest. Moss wants to wait till morning to get to the top. He says it is because it will be more spectacular that way, but Colm thinks it is in case there is danger beyond the summit. Daylight would give them a better chance of detecting and avoiding it.

  They eat the last scraps of their food, drink the last drops of their water, and know that with the morning they must find provisions.

  • • •

  They rise with the sun, slowly, for they are tired from the steep climb. Colm is hungry, they all are, and he scrapes about in his pockets for any overlooked crumb or scrap. Nothing. The children goodmorning each other in the Inner Speech but do not converse. Even the comfort of this form of communication is not enough to will them into the additional expense of energy required.

  The last stretch, a distance of only a few metres, lies between them and the top of the plateau. Moss goes up first, his steps those of an aging, wearied man. Lydia follows, then Colm. They make their way slowly up the rocky path and heave themselves over the lip of stone just enough that they can see the surface, can detect the level of safety.

  Colm is shocked at once by the beauty. A vast tabletop of land, neat and smooth and square, covered as though with a delicate lacy cloth of scattered sprigs of greeny-grey and mauve. Sparse little hedges no higher than his knee trace their patterns across the expanse, weaving as it were a labyrinth, a maze, for creatures much, much smaller. Small, white, petal bells ribbed with green stand sentinel in bunches. Clear brown tracks made smooth by the passing of many padded paws ring the plateau round and round.

  Moss nods, Safe, and they leave the lip of stone. They walk through the grey maze, round the brown track. They search for water, for moisture-filled plants, for the tiniest scrap of a puddle. The dry grey beauty of the place sustains them, gives them hope, spurs them in their quest. They work their way systematically across the plateau, covering carefully small sections at a time. Now and then they look up, around. Theirs is the only mountain in the vicinity; looking out from where they stand in the centre of the plateau, even when they are quite near to the edge, there is only the sky to be seen.

  They reach at last the far side of the plateau, having found little of sustenance save a few bitter seeds which turn their spit brown. They approach the edge carefully, lie flat on their bellies and wriggle like snakes through the dust. Beyond the stone lip of the plateau they see a bank of trees, a gradual descent over scree, and then, far below, a red open plain stretching in every direction to the round horizon. But on the closest edge of this plain, there at the very base of the plateau and a little to the south, sit the strangeness of buildings, gleaming white against the red of dirt.

  At first Colm thinks it is as Freya said, that what they are looking at is a town. His heart leaps: this surely means food and water. But he looks again through the shimmer of his thirsty eyes and sees that there are not really many buildings, not enoug
h for a town. He is disappointed: he was hoping for more. He looks at Moss to wonder, then hears as he does so the familiar drone of a plane in descent. The aircraft makes its way in from the northeast, and comes to land there on the red dirt of the plain beneath them. Dust billows, obscures the view, settles, and shows them then a surge of people hastening from out the cluster of buildings to meet the plane, to greet and make welcome its pilot.

  But all this is far away. The people are tiny, like beetles. The plane could be a toy in Will’s collection. They need to be nearer and so make their way down, through the bank of trees, across the slipperiness of scree. The sun climbs higher in the sky and they hack their way through the sharpness of scrub. They lose sight of the small dusty airport, hear after a time the whir of engines, smell the sweet metallic vapour of engine fuel, and look up to see the huge white belly of a plane climbing the sky.

  Afternoon and still they haven’t reached the base of the plateau. They are travelling more and more slowly, for the exhaustion, for the want of food, of water. Colm’s head hurts and he finds it hard to see. Everywhere he looks, a strange watery shimmer fills the centre of his vision. He feels as though he is walking into silver.

  They rest often, and for longer. They chew a few more of the bitter seeds, look about on the ground for anything else they can eat. Everywhere is dry, grey, brittle. The sun burns their skin, thickens their thoughts.

  The ground drops away sharply and Colm, exhausted and with waning concentration, loses his footing and falls, tumbles over and over himself down the steep slope. He yells as he falls, roars. A large red boulder prevents him from falling any further. He smacks into it, feels at once a large bruise begin to form all along his left side. He cannot help it: he cries.

  Father! Father! he says. It is too hard. I am too tired. I want to stop.

  Colm does not think about the fact that he has just called out in the Inner Speech, barely even notices it for the pain he is in. He is shocked when, a moment later, he receives a response.

  Colm!

  It is his father’s voice, of that there is no doubt.