by Joss Hedley
Father?
He hears his father answer him, though faintly. Remember who you are, son, he hears.
Father! Father, is that you? Where are you?
He hears again, yet more faintly, Remember who you are.
Yes, Father! Yes, of course! But where are you?
He waits. There is the scrabble of Lydia and Moss descending the slope behind him. But nothing more.
Father, he says again.
Colm is sobered, clear-headed. His chest is the moist soil for a seed of hope. He wipes his eyes, gathers himself, and stands. The left side of his body pounds with pain, but he can bear it now.
Thank you, Father, he says, and turns to greet the others with hopeful words as they hurry anxiously towards him.
• • •
It is evening by the time they reach the bottom of the plateau. Colm, Lydia and Moss take shelter in the hem of scrub and watch the lights of the buildings flicker on. One last aircraft descends from the sky, its wing passing close by the three as it drags loudly to rest. The metallic fumes engulf the children.
There are people on the runway. A small open transit vehicle whizzes out to meet the plane, towing behind it a metal staircase. Boxes are unloaded, cartons and crates. People shake hands, cross the stretch of dark ground to the buildings, talking, serious. Men with boxes of tools and fists of grease climb up inside the belly of the plane, investigate under the wheels. Small torches flash against the silver of the shell. The runway lights sputter to darkness.
Colm, Lydia and Moss watch this activity and wonder. Their first thoughts, though, are of water and food. Moss wants to get closer to the buildings to see what he can find. Colm and Lydia lie down in the scrub, faint with hunger and exhaustion, and wait for him. Colm feels as though he will never be able to get up again. He drifts into a half-sleep.
Footsteps and he opens his eyes to see through the scrub two men in overalls walking towards them. He glances at Lydia: she is sitting frozen like a statue, her back a pillar of stone against a tree trunk. The men stop not far from where they are hiding and light up cigarettes. Snatches of their conversation carry through the still night.
‘Should be the last shipment pretty soon,’ says the taller of the two. ‘Then it’s the Land of Plenty for us.’
The second man sucks anxiously on his cigarette. ‘Will it really work, do you think?’
The first man pauses. ‘Of course,’ he says after a moment. And then, quietly, soberly, ‘It’s our only hope.’
Colm wants to speak to Lydia, to ask her what she thinks they are talking about. He is afraid, though, to use the Inner Speech in case by some strange chance the men hear. He tries to still his thoughts, to concentrate on listening, to forget his fear. But he is worried about Moss, worried that the older boy will not see the men and get caught on his way back.
‘So, at O-five-hundred hours, then,’ says the second man.
‘Yep,’ says the first. ‘Early night tonight.’
There is a sound to their right and the men stiffen.
‘What was that?’ whispers the second.
They are still. ‘Rabbit?’ suggests the first.
They walk to where the sound came from. Their voices drift off slowly. Colm exhales his relief.
Gander, Lyd? he asks his sister.
Gander, Colm.
Moss appears, his arms laden.
I thought they’d never leave, he says. Chucked a stone over there to scare ’em off.
It worked, says Colm. What did you find?
Food, he says. And water.
They drink deeply from the container Moss produces. Colm sings with the water, feels himself come alive again under the shimmer of its nourishment. They eat, too, strips of dried meat and hard brown rusks. Colm’s body rejoices.
You’re amazing, Moss, he says. Where did you find all this?
Moss grins. I grew up with this mob, he says. I know their ways, their patterns. It wasn’t too hard.
Colm and Lydia tell Moss of the conversation between the two men. Do you think they were talking about Wonding? Colm asks. Do you think that could be the Land of Plenty?
Moss ponders. Possibly, he says. Though I don’t think there’s much there at the moment.
What about after the Rekindling, says Colm. Then there’ll be plenty.
And the planes do fly in from the northeast, which is where Wonding is, says Lydia.
Moss nods. Maybe, he says. Maybe it is Wonding.
Colm is looking through the scrap of scrub to the nearest plane. His face is tweaked and thoughtful.
What are you thinking? Moss asks him.
I’m thinking that we don’t have to walk any more, says Colm. I’m thinking that we can get a lift in that plane.
That’s ridiculous, says Lydia. They’re not going to give us a lift!
That’s not quite what I meant.
Moss and Colm grin at each other. Moss then laughs gently.
Oh! gasps Lydia, suddenly understanding. You mean stow away!
Yes, says Colm, and he stands up, full of fire.
CHAPTER
13
They barely sleep that night, partly for the planning, partly for the adrenaline that rushes through them. When it is late, long after all of the lights in the buildings have flickered off, they make their way through the last of the scrub towards the resting plane. A guard sits by the cyclone-wire fence that rings the port. A semiautomatic weapon rests across his lap.
Is he sleeping? asks Colm.
I doubt it, replies Moss. He’s spent his life training. He could stay awake for days on end.
How will we pass him? asks Lydia.
Moss bends and picks up several flat pebbles from the ground. We’ll distract him like I did those two men this evening, he says.
Colm is unsure. It’s too easy, he says. He won’t fall for it.
Maybe not, says Moss. But we might as well try.
He hurls two of the pebbles hard so that they hit the earth several metres beyond the guard. His head turns quickly in the direction of the sound. He stands and walks across the ground, his back momentarily towards the children.
Now! commands Moss, and the three of them leap from out of their scrubby hiding place and hurry to the plane, take cover behind one of the wheels. They see the guard pace back across to his chair. But he doesn’t sit in it. He remains standing, alert.
Colm is panting. The anxiety, he feels, is like a parasite, stealing his breath, his strength. He tries to calm himself, tries to remember earlier in the evening when he felt full of fire.
Remember who you are, his father had said to him that afternoon. Remember who you are. Colm turns his mind inwards. Who am I? he wonders. Who am I? I am Colm from Hirrup’s Range. My father is Rafe Bell, the scientist and inventor. My mother was Rose Bell, the artist; she died when I was small. My sister is Lydia and is the person I love most in the world. I think I love Jeune, too. I miss her. I was happy when I was with her. I am not unhappy now. But I am tired. And uncertain.
Who am I?
I am Colm Bell who ran for hours through the tunnel to safety. I am Colm Bell who has walked for weeks in the desert. I am Colm Bell who has survived with only small amounts of food and water at a time. I am Colm Bell who has learned to thread my life into songs. I am Colm Bell who converses in the Inner Speech. I am Colm Bell who found happiness in a small dugout with friends. I am Colm Bell who is in love with the beautiful Jeune. I am Colm Bell who did not stay where I was happy but left with great difficulty in obedience to my father. I am Colm Bell who believes in the Rekindling. I am Colm Bell who desires that our land be made whole once again. I am Colm Bell who will not stop till we have made it to Wonding. I am Colm Bell.
He feels himself quieten, feels himself draw breath evenly once again. His chest grows warm with assurance, his muscles flex gently into faith. He is no longer afraid.
The guard begins to walk the length of the building adjoining the runway. The children watch him, watch his pattern o
f marching to the end, disappearing into the vacant lot at the side of the building, then emerging again twelve seconds later to trace his steps back towards them. They watch this over and over until they are certain of it.
The staircase leading up to the plane is still in position, left ready for the loading in the morning. The children wait until the guard’s back is to them, then hurry out from behind the wheel and take the stairs quietly, quickly. The door at the top of the stairs is closed; Moss turns the handle and the three of them pull it open. They step over the threshold and close the door behind them just as the guard reappears from the vacant lot.
It is dark in the plane. Pale beams from the moon filter in through the curved windows. The children feel their way around the walls, blink in the dimness till their eyes adjust to the gloom. The space is vast, empty. Wooden benches run along the sides. Inflatable vests and oxygen masks swing from overhead rails.
Look for somewhere to hide, Moss says. They separate, take a section each of the plane, begin to scour it for appropriate nooks. Colm examines the front section of the plane, the cabin and the area immediately behind it. There is nothing he can see that will make a suitable refuge.
Moss! Colm! Lydia calls from the far end of the plane. She has unfastened the top panel of one of the wooden benches to reveal a shallow hold beneath the floor.
We can lie in here, she suggests. We can cover ourselves with tarpaulin just in case, but I think we’ll be gander if we wedge ourselves all the way to the back.
Colm and Moss look closely at the space, or as closely as they can in the darkness. Colm climbs into the hold and attempts to lie down. He cannot stretch out fully. His legs are bent, his head tilted at an uncomfortable angle.
It’ll be tight, he says. But we’ll survive.
The others climb in after him and they lie side by side pressed hard against the wall, the floor.
I think we should stay up top until morning, says Moss. Otherwise we’ll never walk again. I’ll keep first watch.
They climb out and stretch themselves fully once again. Moss takes position by the door, peers through the window beside it. Colm and Lydia lie down on the benches and attempt to sleep.
Do you think we’ll be all right? Lydia asks Colm as they drift off.
We’ll be gander.
• • •
Moss wakes him some time later for the next watch. Colm sits by the window looking out. Directly beneath him the metal stairs stretch from the plane to the dark ground. Some distance from here the guard keeps firm his position. Colm can see that the man is still very much alert. The rigor of him, the steeliness and the discipline, incline in Colm a certain respect.
Apart from the guard, there are no other people outside. The buildings are still dark. The runway is quiet. The moon in its fullness floats saucer-like in the sky. Colm gazes at it, imagines he sees there a small wisp of cloud stretched out across the orb’s shining breadth. It kindles in him the memory of music. What was it? he wonders. And then he remembers. It was the first of his own future songs: it was the song of the clouds and the rain.
He looks at the moon, at the fancy of cloud over its breast, and sings in the Inner Speech the future song once again. It is a little different: there is more in him now, what with Jeune and with love. And it is as though the fancy of cloud knows this, and so weaves itself into a fine bridal veil, spins its delicate self into a cover of beauty. Colm watches and sings and thinks how very strange it is: for the cloud seems to swell with the lilt of his song, seems to form and re-form with the measure. And the more the boy sings, the more the cloud pushes and breaks and moves into cadence, so that, for a time, Colm thinks that there is not a single thing between them, between this fanciful cloud and himself. So he sings of the cloud and of Jeune and of love as he waits for the first sign of morning.
It is still dark when the time comes to waken Moss and Lydia. A light flickers on in the building behind the guard and Colm is wrenched from his dreaming. A whistle blows, and at once all of the other tubes in the building flicker to light. Colm calls softly to the others and they clamber into the shallow hold. Moss pulls the panel of the bench behind him, drags it into its place. The three of them settle themselves into their dark and cramped quarters, prepare for a long journey ahead.
Gander? they ask of each other. And Gander they each reply.
They hear nothing for a few moments, then the opening of the heavy metal door sounds directly above their heads. There are voices, loud but indistinct, and many of them. What seems like an army troops overhead as passenger after passenger boards the aircraft.
Colm is intrigued by this, is intrigued by the fact that it is people who are being loaded and not crates and boxes as he had somehow imagined. Who are all these people? Where did they come from? Were they all in the buildings last night? He wants to ask Moss what he thinks, but is reluctant to speak at all, even in the Inner Speech. Someone in the plane might be able to hear them.
The engines start, a deep thunder rumbling beneath them. Gears shift and change, the plane begins to slowly taxi along the runway. Colm can feel every stone and pothole they pass over and is surprised: he had thought the runway smoother than this.
The rumble raises its pitch until it becomes like the whir of a giant hive of bees. Colm begins to gather saliva in his mouth ready to swallow as they take off. He has never travelled in a plane before, but his father has. Swallowing is something you must do, his father had told him, to prevent your ears from blocking as the plane increases in altitude. But it seems to Colm that he has very little in the way of moisture in his mouth, so he gives up after a time and hopes for the best.
The plane gathers speed, he can feel it. The engine’s pitch rises higher and higher until the aircraft succumbs to its coaxing and edges its nose off the ground. A moment later the wheels lose contact with the earth and they are airborne, flying on faith and fuel and last century’s technology.
Colm isn’t quite sure what to make of the sensation. He wishes he could see out, could see the earth dropping away from them, could see, too, the white buildings growing more and more indistinct against the red soil, so much so that they become specks, that they even disappear completely from sight. But there is no window or porthole and Colm must content himself with imagining.
The plane is gaining altitude quickly, climbing the sky so that the children are positioned with their heads far higher than their feet. The incline presses weight onto their legs, which are already cramped and uncomfortable. Colm feels pins and needles begin to prickle his skin. They have not been airborne five minutes and already he is wishing it was over.
Think about something else, he says to himself. Take your mind off it. He scans rapidly his various mental files: Jeune, he thinks quickly. He settles his thoughts upon her, thinks of how things will be when they see each other again, after the Rekindling. He imagines how he will present her with flowers, perhaps like those that grow on the top of the plateau: white petal bells ribbed with green. He imagines how Jeune will take them from him, will plait them into her hair, or pin them to her breast. He thinks of how they will walk together alongside rivers, of how they will swim, perhaps, or sit in the shade drinking Fanta. He will write sonnets for her, and build her the finest of all dugouts. And when they pass through the streets of the nearby town people will smile and wave at them and say to one another, ‘A love like this has ne’er before been seen.’
The plane reaches its height and levels out once again. Colm feels the pressure on his legs lessen, though they are stiff now and aching. Lydia shifts beside him. He reaches for her hand and gives it a squeeze. She moves her chin to his shoulder and nestles there.
Will this work? he wonders. Will they make it to Wonding? What if the plane is headed somewhere completely different? What if it is actually heading south and not north? Colm feels his heart begin to race, his head to pound. What made us so sure of the direction? All of our travelling will be in vain if this plane isn’t going north. We will never make
it to Wonding. We will never make it to Father.
He feels sick, nauseous. His body aches. He cannot feel his legs. He can see nothing but blackness, hear nothing but the roar of engines. The air he is breathing is heavy, dank. He cannot take a deep enough breath. He feels as though there is a great weight sitting on his chest, as though a heavy beast rests there, impeding his intake of air. His ears are blocked; he cannot muster enough saliva to swallow and unblock them. His mouth is parched and dry. He is beginning to get cold.
He is despairing, he knows it. He tries to think again of Jeune, to comfort himself with thoughts of her. He knows he needs to lift himself. But he suddenly feels utterly incapable. He feels now as he did yesterday when he lost his footing and tumbled down from the plateau, when he smacked himself into the large rock and cried out to his father. Only now he feels worse. It has been too hard, he thinks. And if this plane does not go to Wonding, then it has been for nothing.
He turns his head away from Lydia’s, faces the invisible black wall. The temperature is dropping further and he begins to shiver. How are we even going to get out of here? he thinks. It will be broad daylight. They’ll see us. They’ll take us prisoner again. Maybe they’ll even shoot us on sight. Then in the darkness he shrugs. Who cares? he thinks. So what? He feels as though muddy water is suddenly washing over him and he sinks into it. It doesn’t hurt if I don’t care, he thinks. He sinks further, relieved to no longer be bothered.
And then, there in the darkness, with the pain and the cold, he recollects the voice. He does not hear it in the way that he did yesterday, but the imprint of it on his mind is the same. Remember who you are, he recalls. Remember who you are.
At first he resists, keeps his face close to the darkness, to the thickness of the muddy water. The impression, though, of his father’s voice does not leave him, but lingers with him, prods at him. Remember who you are, he hears over and over again. Remember who you are.
Who am I?
He drags the words slowly through the darkness. It is hard to formulate them, partly because he doesn’t really want to, partly because he doesn’t really believe them. But he knows that he must, knows that it is his father’s wish that he formulate them.