The Boy Who Drew the Future

by Rhian Ivory

  He stopped in front of the farrier’s cottage and pushed open the door. As I walked into the cottage I recognised the woman who must be the farrier’s wife. She never told me her name when she came to see me, but I remembered her now; she had a strange voice, as if she wasn’t from these parts. Her skin had cleared up well leaving only a few scars on her forehead.

  She stood next to a low cot which had a child in it. She didn’t look at me but cried out, ‘Oh bless y’pet, bless y’for coming. I didnae know what to do. Ma wee girl, ma wee girl. I canny wake her up.’ She pulled me into the room, taking my hands, leading me to her child. I took off my hat and knelt by the small cot. It held a little girl with long white hair. Her chest was moving up and down too fast, her breathing shallow and wet. A pile of blankets lay at her feet. There was a small fire in the hearth and the front door was still wide open.

  ‘Shut the door, we need to keep her warm. And build the fire,’ I instructed. She looked quickly at her husband and then back at me.

  ‘Mary said y’d know what t’do. Mary Wright told me t’send Thomas t’you. She told me where y’lived.’ She folded her arms across her chest as if to challenge me, as if to say, ‘Go on then give me away,’ but I didn’t. I would never do that. Instead I reached past her and pulled the blankets up over the child.

  ‘But she’s burnin’, she’s on fire.’ She put out her arm as if to stop me.

  ‘Leave him be, Aileen. Just leave the boy be. He knows what to do, let him help us,’ her husband shouted, and then turned to the fire to build it up.

  ‘Hot water,’ I called out and she rushed over to the fire to get some from the pot. I shut the door. There were coats hanging on pegs next to it. I gathered them up. I placed these behind the child’s back to lift her up. The gurgling in her throat eased and her chest began moving up and down at a slower pace. I cleared a space at their table, knocking things onto the floor. I emptied my pockets, took out my knife and cut a piece of fennel then mixed in some chamomile. The woman placed a jug of hot water on the table next to me and returned to her child, stroking the damp hair off her face.

  I took a bowl and added some water to the mixture to dilute it. It bonded quickly forming a thick paste. ‘Put it on her chest,’ I called to the woman, who took the bowl from me. I took a shirt from a pile of clothes on a chair and tore it into thin strips. ‘Wrap them around her, tight.’

  The man handed them to the woman. I dropped some nettle and ginger tincture from a vial into another bowl, diluting again with hot water.

  ‘Spoon?’ I asked. The man found me one. I took the bowl over to the child’s bed and put it on the floor. I held her gently, pulling her up. She fought me weakly, trying to push me away. I fed the mixture into the child’s mouth, telling her, ‘It’s good. Good for you.’

  When it was empty the man took the bowl away and then came to stand at the foot of the cot. I held the girl tightly in my arms and we all watched and waited, none of us making eye contact at all. In my arms I held their precious gift and I felt the pressure, the possibility that this might not work. But I had to have faith. The man stood over us, his daughter and I, and I felt his trust in me and hoped and prayed that the girl wouldn’t get worse.

  Within minutes her eyes widened and she leaned over and started retching violently, struggling for air as fluid flew out of her mouth, spattering us and the bed.

  ‘What hae y’done? What hae y’done? Get off, shift yerself!’ the woman screamed at me, pulling her daughter out of my arms.

  The child started to cough up clotted green lumps, spit hanging greasily from her gaping mouth. She paused in between the heaves to cough and hack, bringing up more phlegm, the smell of which turned my stomach and filled the hot room. After this she collapsed back on the bed, but there was colour in her cheeks and her face had changed shape.

  ‘Keep her up. Push her up,’ I told the man and he gathered her small form in his arms and sat behind her so that she couldn’t fall back.

  ‘Give more of this, one spoon in water, three times a day.’

  The man nodded and then whispered, ‘Thank you,’ but couldn’t tear his eyes from his wife and their child.

  The child looked at me, the only one in the room who would, then closed her eyes and fell asleep, breathing soft and steady in her father’s arms.

  CHAPTER 9

  NOAH

  ‘What’s that tune you’re whistling? Sounds really familiar,’ I ask Beth as we walk further up the garden, away from the Manor House. Beth had been whistling under her breath all day at school, moving her fingers up and down on the desk.

  ‘I wasn’t… I didn’t know I was. Sorry. I’ve been practising that piece I wrote. There’s a bit I can’t get right. It’s probably that section I’ve been whistling.’ She rubs her hand across her nose as we walked under the ash trees.

  I can play music in my head too. I can select a track and press an imaginary play. I’ll hear it in my head, but I’d stop myself from whistling it out loud. I have to take steps to make sure I don’t stand out, don’t draw stares or start people whispering behind their hands. Making yourself blend into the mass of white shirts and ties, acting as normal and uniform as possible, results in an easier life.

  We’d been going back to her house every day after school to take more photos and try and pull together a decent presentation for the first part of our History project. We’d decided to focus on animals in the village, rather than people or buildings. We’d managed to get a few pictures of the kingfishers on the river, which would look great if we blew them up big enough. We’d have to go to the church at dusk to stand any chance of catching the barn owl that had been seen in the graveyard. We hadn’t picked the easiest subjects to take decent photos of – all the animals kept moving, blurring the pictures.

  Dull weeds sulk around the edges of a small hut as we reach the top end of the garden backing onto bright yellow fields in flower. The shabby building leans awkwardly against a walled area that must have once been full of herbs.

  ‘It smells of chamomile and mint.’ I sniff the air and take photos of the honeybees collecting pollen from the flowers, hoping to get some useable ones.

  ‘There was a herb garden, I think, in the olden days, when it was a proper Manor House. I should think there was a housekeeper, a gardener and a cook, maybe more. Clearly there’s no gardener working here now or any other servants!’ She laughs, pointing at a crumbling wall leading off to long rows of rectangular vegetable beds. She laughs a lot, finding things funny and light. She’s so easy to be with. She doesn’t look at me with a fleck of fear in her eye, she just smiles and tells me more about the history of her house.

  ‘Dad says this place was empty for years and years before someone in his family inherited it. Blames the state of the garden on that rather than the fact that he and Mum haven’t got a clue. They keep talking about getting a goat, but I think it’s a joke, at least I hope it’s a joke!’ Beth tries to open the door but it’s stuck, possibly swollen in the heat. It is unbelievably hot.

  ‘Told you. This place is falling apart, nothing fits anymore. All the windows have gaps in them. You should hear the wind howling in the winter. Mum and Dad refuse to replace the sash windows with PVC ones. They say we are guardians of the house and have to keep it as it was.’ Beth manages to free the door after a few awkward goes and holds it open for me. We sit down on some wicker chairs which are even more uncomfortable than they look.

  ‘So where did you live before here?’ Beth asks, putting the heavy Polaroid camera down on the table.

  It is an ordinary question, one I’m used to answering, used to lying about, but the words get stuck in my throat. I cough and open my bottle of water, taking the first long cold gulp.

  ‘All over the place. Dad’s a wildlife photographer, so he works for different companies and magazines. Mum says she doesn’t mind all the UK moves, but says she’s not leaving this country. I like the idea of going off somewhere exotic. In fact, Dad’s been offered work with t
he coastal path project on Anglesey, not that an island in the Irish Sea exactly fits my idea of exotic! Mum’s not keen, she says the only weather they get in Wales is rain.’ Rain sounds quite nice right now in comparison to this relentless heat.

  Beth looks pityingly at me, as if this is the worst idea she’s ever heard.

  ‘You’d be so cut off though, wouldn’t you, living out there on an island? I can’t imagine living somewhere different, or moving about all the time. I don’t mind travelling to see Mum’s family or going on holiday, but I love my home. I’d never want to live anywhere else but here.’ She wriggles in her chair as if the thought makes her uncomfortable.

  ‘It’s alright, you get used to it. Dad gets to do some interesting stuff, he says it’s better than being stuck in an office. He’s working with the RSPB on Wallasea Island documenting their wild coast project, you know, like a photographic record of everything they do. I don’t mind really and I like new places and meeting new people,’ I lie, dipping my head away. I take the pencil off my ear and begin doodling on some old seed packets on the table.

  ‘Anyway, that’s enough about me, we’re supposed to be taking photos for History. I think we need a few more of the church and the owl you said you saw. Want to take some more of your famous fish?’ I ask her, needing to change the subject. I don’t want to talk any more about myself or where I’ve been or why we move so much.

  ‘We should have asked your dad if he’s the expert on photography,’ Beth suggests.

  ‘No! I mean, no way, we can’t cheat. That’d put us at an unfair advantage, nope, we’ve got to do this on our own. Just you and me.’ I kick her foot gently with mine and she kicks me back, grinning.

  ‘OK, OK, no cheating. But we could ask him for a bit of help? I’ve got absolutely no idea how to take a decent shot of an owl at night! Shall we go back to your house tomorrow instead of here?’ she says, not willing to let it drop, sitting back on the wicker chair which cracks.

  I don’t want to put my mum and Beth in the same room. I don’t want Mum watching us, looking at me, building up questions about this to bombard me with later. I’m not ready for that. I don’t even know what this is yet.

  I put the pencil back on the top of my ear and look at the brown paper seed packets on the table and shiver despite the heat. I’ve covered them with drawings of her fish, using up every millimetre of space with fins and eyes and tails. I hold them up to the sunlight from the open doorway to see better. The paper is thin, almost see-through, like fish scales. There’s something funny about them, they look weird and at odd angles.

  Beth follows my gaze.

  ‘You like drawing, don’t you? You’re always doodling in class. So why didn’t you pick Art? Why did you pick D&T?’ She leans out of her chair a little trying to see what I’ve been sketching. I lower the papers, moving them away from the sun.

  ‘Oh, I promised my parents I’d pick a proper subject, you know, something you can use to get a proper job. Don’t think the scruffy Art student would cut it for Mum and Dad.’

  I remember the conversation I’d had with my parents as we left our last house, as we were handing the keys back to the letting agency. In the car outside the estate agents, I promised them once again that I’d stop drawing, that I’d hide my pictures better and I wouldn’t bring them into the next school. I heard my voice telling them I would not try to warn anyone about anything because, as my mum said in a surprising moment of bluntness, no one ever believed me anyway.

  Not until it was too late.

  My parents had no idea how much I meant to keep the promise, how much I tried to stick to my word, but I just couldn’t. And here was the evidence, right now, all over these seed packets. The drawing would take me over anywhere and everywhere these days, sometimes even without my hands shaking to warn me. My vow to my parents seemed pointless, like a child’s promise, earnestly made and easily broken.

  I jump up and shove the packets into my back pocket.

  ‘C’mon, let’s go back down to the pond and take some photos. We should get something done. Does it smell funny in here to you? It’s giving me a headache.’ I’m telling the truth, the temperature in the hut is oppressive, making the room smell strongly of something I don’t recognise. It reminds me of garlic but it’s not quite so familiar.

  ‘Yeah, sure. Let’s go then.’

  She bangs into the table sending my bottle crashing to the floor. She sounds sharp. I pick up the bottle and then stand away from the door to let Beth go first. She pushes past me slightly, looking cross. As I follow her out, I trip over something in the doorway.

  ‘Oh!’ I shout, falling over my feet, startling a group of nightingales. A watch, they’re called, a watch of nightingales, which makes sense – it feels like they are watching me as they spiral up into the air.

  ‘What’s up now?’ she asks, turning back to look at me, hands on hips, and I feel stupid sprawled over the grass, staring up at the noisy birds.

  ‘Nothing. Just tripped.’ I jump up, feeling embarrassed, and look down to see what I’ve fallen over. I’d caught my foot on the worn, flaking threshold of the hut. I crouch down and try to push the splinters of wood back together, feeling guilty that I’ve damaged the doorway. As I push the wood into the earth, I feel a lump, a hard uneven edge at the base of the hut. I scrape away with my nails, which tingle as if I’ve been stung by nettles. My hand wraps around something small and rounded and hot. It is a stone covered in mud, but I can see it isn’t just a lump of gravel or concrete or brick. I wipe it on my school trousers and hold it up in the sunlight. It gleams fiery in the heat of the sun.

  ‘What’s that?’ Beth asks, reaching her hand out. I hold the soft stone in the palm of my hand for her to see. She looks at it and smiles.

  ‘You’ve found another stone! Look, it’s just like mine.’ She pulls her necklace out from under her white shirt to show me and the stones match perfectly. Pale, soft, rounded and hot to touch. They are a matching pair.

  I close my fingers back around the stone, hiding it. It feels like I’ve pressed my palm up against an oven door. It is so hot that it feels cold for a split second, as if I’ve got frostbite. Then a spicy warmth runs through my skin, down into my veins, and rockets around my whole body. I tingle again as many different smells, tastes and sounds fill my senses.

  I close my eyes, my head whirling, forgetting Beth, her garden and the hut. I hear a tune whistled in a high pitch which cuts through the air like a signal. It sounds like the watching birds in the trees above trilling in their secret language. I open my eyes.

  Beth is soundlessly watching me, holding her hand out for the stone which I don’t want to give her. But it isn’t mine to keep.

  My fingertips bump against hers as I drop the stone into her hand. When I pull away I feel cold and alone in the silence, the whistling long gone, carried away on the breeze of the birds’ wings.

  CHAPTER 10

  BLAZE

  ‘They’ve been gone a while now. I don’t normally fret but Alfie and I argued just before he left. To be honest I didn’t want him to go, I asked him not to, at least not until after we were wed. I just need to know if he’s coming back to me. He’s taken my brother Daniel with him this time. Reckless the pair of them, don’t care a jot for me or Mother and our worries.’ She didn’t wring her hands in her lap, or look past me, or keep an eye out for someone else coming. It was as if she was beyond all of that, as if she didn’t care who saw her sitting on my stool, in my hut. She wore a white apron over her black dress which smelt faintly of woodsmoke. She pushed Dog gently with the heel of her boot, rubbing his side as he lay at her feet. None of the others ever seemed to even notice Dog, or me, too set on what they’d come for.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ I promised her, hoping I’d be able to. I didn’t know her name but I’d seen her before, heading out across the parklands up the hill to the Hall. I sat down on the floor, took up my pencil and began to sketch out four faces, the paper balancing on my knee. But onl
y one of them was a living face, and I wondered how quickly she would see this.

  They were in a boat thrown up and away by high waves. The boat had been ripped from its mooring by an earthquake, torn away from the land. It went under the sea, coming up wrecked and ruined. Rubble and lumps of wood covered their bodies, but I could see one face quite clearly, the lone survivor. I knew she’d need to see his face to identify him. But it wasn’t Alfie, it was her brother Daniel who had survived.

  She watched as the picture formed.

  ‘It’s Alfie, isn’t it? It’s him that’s gone? It was the first time I’d begged him not to go but it didn’t stop him, made him even more determined if anything. Course Alfie went, promising me it would be the last time, taking our Daniel with him.’ She bit her lip, as if to steady herself before carrying on.

  ‘Didn’t think about me, though he said it was for me, said it was all for our future, to set us on the right track. Couldn’t turn down that lump of money. Said he’d come back and we’d get married. Well, he won’t be coming back now, he isn’t coming back, is he?’

  ‘No, sorry.’ I shook my head.

  It would start with a tremor that would fracture the land and creep out to shake the sea and neither of us could stand in its way.

  ‘But Daniel? That’s him, isn’t it, that’s our Daniel. He’ll come back home, won’t he?’

  I nodded.

  She stood up getting ready to leave. Dog whined a little as he wagged his tail at her. She held the drawing in her hand and reached for the door, but then turned around again, handing the drawing back to me. She didn’t need it; it wasn’t something she was going to hold close to her chest or put in her pocket for later. This wasn’t a view of her future she’d want to see. She put it down on the little table gently, as if she was saying goodbye to something, and tapped it with her finger. She smiled and said, ‘Thank you,’ again and then reached into her skirt pocket. She pulled out a small leather purse.