The Horses

by William Lane

  25

  ‘The horses? They’ve all been mustered up.’

  ‘The fence is in order.’

  ‘What fence?’

  ‘The perimeter fence.’

  ‘The tents will have to be here this afternoon at the latest. We’ve got nowhere to put half the boys.’

  ‘What tents?’

  ‘We need to order more tents.’

  ‘What about the gates? Shouldn’t the gates be locked?’

  ‘Why? They won’t be able to get the tents in.’

  ‘I don’t know – I –’

  It was Sunday, noon, the day after the flood. Cobblefield, Pike and Festus had collected in the staffroom with a few shocked masters. A blackout was affecting the entire school, so candles had been placed along the staffroom table.

  ‘Oh, look at this,’ cried Festus, ‘someone’s destroyed the diorama.’

  ‘Vandals have got in,’ said Cobblefield. ‘We’re under attack. What next?’

  ‘It’s terrible,’ whimpered Festus, ‘just terrible. And I thought the keys sticking on the organ were trouble enough. I never thought it would come to this.’

  ‘We’ll make another diorama,’ said Cobblefield. Cobblefield, for some reason, was covered in dust, and looked ghostly by candlelight.

  Parsons was standing by the magazine table, chuckling by candlelight at a dubious publication.

  ‘Anyone could get in,’ said Pike, ‘and take advantage. We should strengthen the fence.’

  ‘I second that,’ muttered Parsons, licking the tip of his index finger and turning a page. He had found something no one had seen before.

  ‘The fence is the least of our worries,’ snapped Cobblefield. ‘Don’t you understand? The damage has been done!’

  ‘We need the school rolls. Boys must be missing.’

  ‘Do we keep rolls? I don’t.’

  ‘We need to do a head count.’

  ‘Where is Capon?’

  ‘Oh – what are we to do?’

  ‘Half the houses are lost.’

  ‘At least the rain’s over.’

  ‘For the time being.’

  Cobblefield began raking up the remains of the diorama with his boot, the scattered tin horsemen and the shards of plaster field, while sharp-chinned Pike held a candle for him. ‘We’ve had rotten luck,’ Cobblefield almost sobbed, ‘but we can restore things, it can be as it was before.’

  ‘Before what?’ asked Pike sullenly.

  ‘Before that Mr Val came, and before Mr C began his crusade –’

  ‘How can you mention Val?’ cried Pike. ‘He’s just been taken away in a box.’

  ‘Well, before Mr C came, then. Everything changed when the minister arrived. He’s got to go. In tough times, we fall back on our traditions. We close ranks.’

  ‘True enough, Cobblefield,’ said Wiley, entering the staffroom.

  ‘Wiley, thank God you’re here!’ cried Cobblefield.

  Wiley was followed by a few bewildered masters, some still in their pyjamas. Those clustered about the ruined diorama stared at Wiley expectantly, as at some saviour.

  ‘What’s going on in here?’ Wiley growled.

  ‘I was just saying that we can regroup, recover,’ said Cobblefield, ‘because nothing, essentially, has changed. We’ve simply had some bad luck and a few bad eggs in our midst –’

  ‘You’re right, Cobblefield,’ said Wiley, his face unmoving. ‘We have had some bad eggs. And we have had ill luck, yes. The situation’s now stable, I believe. The rain’s gone. The weather forecast’s good.’

  ‘That’s right, he’s right!’

  ‘Don’t fear for our future, men,’ said Wiley, moving his head slowly from side to side. And he told them that what they needed was a long period of stabilisation, consolidation, that was what he envisioned.

  ‘Yes!’ cried Cobblefield. ‘I feel that too. I see it.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Pike, ‘consolidation, that’s what we need.’

  ‘We’ll pull through, with men like us,’ said Wiley. ‘But some things have to change. Some lessons need to be learnt.’

  The men found chairs, and began pulling them up in a circle, facing Wiley, who was handed a candle. ‘No surprises in the years to come, I say,’ he intoned. ‘A low-risk strategy.’

  ‘We agree.’

  ‘Only men we can trust. We’ll employ no others. All new employees should be scrutinised as to the nature of their beliefs. No zealots of whatever nature. No evangelicals. They’re too risky.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘We should keep staff as constant as possible for at least the next decade. We have to close ranks over this.’

  ‘Take no chances.’

  ‘It’s stabilisation we need.’

  ‘No risks.’

  ‘No risks,’ repeated Cobblefield, waving a ghostly arm, ‘look where employing that Mr C and that Mr Val – not that I want to speak ill of … him – but look where they got us!’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’

  ‘Capon made an error there.’

  ‘Where is Capon?’

  ‘Right,’ said Wiley. ‘No risks. No scatterbrained initiatives. Let’s work with what we’ve still got.’

  ‘We need to tell Capon precisely that,’ said Cobblefield.

  ‘But where is Capon?’ cried Pike.

  ‘Oh, Capon, let’s get rid of him!’ burst out Cobblefield. ‘Wiley’s our man now!’

  ‘Not so fast, Cobblefield,’ cautioned Wiley, ‘not so fast.’

  ‘We should strengthen the fence,’ put in Parsons, who remained reading in the shadows.

  ‘We will, we will,’ said Wiley. ‘Something else: I propose we build an equestrian statue at the gates. A symbol. A symbol of our strength and renewal.’

  ‘What an idea!’ gasped Cobblefield, ‘wonderful! It could be made from the stones retrieved from the houses!’

  ‘My thinking exactly,’ said Wiley.

  ‘I think we should raise the perimeter fence, too,’ said Pike. ‘Let’s make it higher.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Well said.’

  ‘And I think we need to improve the horse stocks,’ gushed Pike, ‘why not make the horses bigger and stronger?’

  ‘But we’ve already got a fine reputation there, Pike,’ said Wiley. ‘No, let’s not tamper with the horses. That’s the last thing we want to muck around with.’

  ‘I agree, now’s no time to muck about with the horses,’ said Cobblefield. ‘God knows we were lucky enough putting out that fire in the stables and only losing four or five mares. Or was it ten?’

  ‘What’s the news on the boys in the hospital?’ asked someone.

  ‘I haven’t checked,’ said Wiley. ‘I’m sure they’re being looked after. Just broken arms and concussion and the like.’

  ‘Where is Mr C?’ Festus asked.

  No one knew.

  Parsons abruptly hooted, so that they all jumped. ‘Listen to this, men, listen to this! It’s said Catherine the Great – you know, of Russia – died fucking a stallion. And I thought I knew my history! Oh, this is rich. This – this takes the cake. The stallion was so exhausted by the dear lady’s demands it had a heart attack and collapsed on her, crushing her! That’s how she died! Imagine! She was an insatiable woman. Imagine –’

  ‘Parsons,’ said Wiley, ‘shut up.’

  Parsons giggled.

  ‘Yuk, what’s that?’ said Wiley, stamping his feet. ‘Mice – hell, the floor’s teeming with them! Open the door someone, this place is infested. I knew I could smell them.’

  Festus scrambled to open the door. A stream of mice poured outwards. Some masters, wandering in, startled at the rodents.

  ‘The idea of an equestrian statue – that’s wonderful,’ enthused Cobblefield to Wiley, ‘you’ve got my full support there. We could turn the stone fund to that.’

  ‘The rain will not defeat us. And the likes of the Oscar Newbolds of this world will not defeat us,’ Wiley i
mpressed upon them. ‘Oh, before I forget, the police want to ask you some questions, Cobblefield. You too, Pike.’

  ‘The police? What about?’ asked the two masters, dismayed, stamping their feet as the last of the mice scurried for the door. ‘What for?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose regarding last night. And regarding the incident concerning Mr Val. I wouldn’t worry too much about it. A simple case of death by drowning. What’s that noise?’

  Organ music was being piped into the dark room.

  ‘Ah, Festus. He must have crept off to play his organ. Splendid! It’s working again! And so things begin to return to normal. Shall we sing the hymn, men?’

  26

  That afternoon, after being interviewed by the police, Gregory visited Mr C’s lodgings. He found the minister packing a suitcase, and wearing a black patch over one eye. The minister had discarded his cassock, but retained his dog collar. He looked a different man in jeans and a shirt. He had also shaved off his beard.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Gregory, standing in the door of Mr C’s bedroom.

  ‘Leaving.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve realised my time’s up here.’

  ‘I didn’t know this was on the cards.’

  ‘Yes, well, it wasn’t planned!’

  ‘The boys will be shocked.’

  Mr C did not look at Gregory, but continued to pack.

  ‘I understand you had a terrible experience last night, Mr C,’ said Gregory. ‘Someone said you almost drowned.’

  ‘I was almost drowned.’

  ‘Then, forgive me for saying it, but are you sure you’re thinking clearly? You’ve had a shock.’

  Mr C laughed. ‘Yes, I am thinking clearly, I promise you, Gregory. Clearer than ever.’

  ‘You’re not wearing your cassock.’

  ‘No. The time of my ministry is over.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I no longer consider myself a minister. You’re the first to hear it.’

  Gregory stood in silence for some time. Mr C kept packing.

  ‘But what about the boys?’ Gregory asked. ‘They need you now more than ever, I would have thought.’

  ‘They don’t need the likes of me.’

  Mr C suddenly stopped what he was doing and glared at Gregory. ‘Last night I nearly drowned. Yes. But Val did drown. His hands were around my neck in the moments before he died.’

  Mr C yanked aside his dog collar, displaying a ring of ridged welts. He threw the collar in the bin.

  ‘I was fighting Val to the death, Gregory. Oh, that’s not what I told the police this morning – of course not. And my clerical collar hid my guilt.’

  ‘Mr C!’

  ‘I am not fit to be a minister, Gregory. I learned that last night. I am no better than Val was – I am worse, in fact. He at least was no hypocrite. There I was, running around reassuring everyone that their pain was felt in heaven! Well, last night I lost that belief. Oh, I’ve learnt a great deal since being here, Gregory. A great deal!’

  ‘Mr C, calm down, you’re not well!’

  ‘I’ll remember this place not very fondly. The horses – I’ll carry their stench in my nostrils to the end of my days. The horses I never did learn to ride.’ Mr C zipped up his suitcase, and adjusted his eye patch. ‘No, the horses I never did learn to ride,’ he sighed.

  27

  Dear Donald,

  Thank you for the manuscript. Although I suggested writing the story as therapy, I never thought you’d actually do it. It has given me some valuable insights into your ‘illness’, as you insist I call it. Perhaps next week we could start by discussing the figure of Val, and the revenge you take upon him – if I may call it revenge. Literature as revenge is a rather interesting topic, and I want to talk to you about it. You say the story was rather difficult to write. For my part, I found it rather difficult to read. You’ve actually brought up a few issues for me. My schooldays came back to me with some force. It appears they were not dissimilar, in essence, to yours … of course the details were different, but yes, yes, how absurd it all was!

  Acknowledgements

  The Horses was developed in part during a fortnight stay at Varuna, the Writers’ House, in Katoomba, NSW. I would like to thank everyone at Varuna. Thank you in particular to Peter Bishop for his encouragement at this time. Thank you Mel McMillan for your support.

  Also by William Lane

  Over the Water

  ISBN: 9781921924668

  Trade PB 208pp

  Transit Lounge 2014

  Also available as an e-book.

  Hauntingly beautiful and told with remarkable clarity, Over the Water is the story of an Australian outsider who finds teaching work in Bandung, a city in Java. Seduced by the sights, sounds, and magic of Indonesia, Joe finds himself unwittingly drawn into the lives of three women. Firstly he rents a room in fellow teacher Lisa’s house, and discovers that she has a small harem of Indonesian boys living with her. Then there is Danu, a Javanese beauty, who says she is trying to escape an arranged marriage. Danu and Joe find common ground in seeking aspects of themselves ‘over the water’ – for Danu this means the West, for Joe it means the East. Joe also feels a connection with Babette, a reclusive English woman who lives in a crumbling Dutch villa. She is an old friend of Joe’s elder brother, Emile, who once lived in Bandung. Her relationship with Emile has long ceased, but Joe makes a remarkable discovery.

  As Over the Water unfolds, Joe discovers that his identity is not only fragile, it is disturbingly arbitrary. Based at least in part on the author’s experiences of living in Indonesia, this compelling debut is the quintessential novel about East and West, and how our dreams manifest themselves.

  Praise for Over the Water

  ‘A kind of Wake in Fright set in Indonesia, Lane paints an unsentimental portrait of wanderlust and the perils of freedom. But he doesn’t stop there. With hallucinatory vision, he draws back the curtains to reveal the inevitable pull and power of a mythic undertow.’

  Courtney Collins, author of The Burial

  ‘An unexpected sense of menace and melancholy pervades this debut novel about cultural difference and identity, set in Indonesia’s third-largest city. Following in the footsteps of his enigmatic older brother, 23-year-old Joe arrives in Bandung to teach English and immediately ‘struggles with that imposter feeling’. As a seemingly innocent outsider, he quickly becomes embroiled in the lives of various women, both foreign and local. His relationships form with an accelerated intimacy and he begins to question the possibility of romantic love and the notion of freedom, leaving him feeling uncertain of his place in the world. It’s this sense of displacement that William Lane captures so well.

  Lane has lived in Indonesia and his first-hand knowledge of language, customs and place lend this book an authentic and compelling voice. Lane’s settings are lush, dark and richly described, and his characters are moody and intense, hinting at the mythic power that bubbles underneath Javanese culture, always threatening to explode. This is not the fluffy, loved-up Indonesia of Eat, Pray, Love, but a darker, more intimate portrait of a complex society steeped in religion and superstition.

  Anyone who has ever taught English overseas will instantly recognise Joe’s colleagues who are a mishmash of accents and attitudes. Wavering between a sickly spiritual gushiness and a visceral disgust for the local culture, they each confront the reader with uncomfortable questions about the challenges of meaningful cultural exchange. Lane’s depiction of the limits and expectations placed on women, both here and in Indonesian society, are especially poignant.

  This is a refreshingly original exploration of the gulfs and bridges between Australia and Indonesia, one that goes beyond the superficiality of massages, temples and sunset cocktails. The final pages are a sobering reminder that, no matter where you live in the world, freedom often comes at a price.

  Sally Keighery, Readings Monthly, July 2014

  ‘Twentysomething Joe arrives in Ba
ndung, a city on Java, to teach English, in this moody and unsettling novel from William Lane. Anyone who has had a similar experience will recognise immediately what the author evokes with precision: that the borders of an expat’s identity are somehow more porous, looser. The novel charts Joe’s interaction with various women – Lisa, a fellow teacher, with her harem of Javanese boys; Danu, a local beauty who claims to be seeking an escape from an arranged marriage; Babette, an English recluse and friend of her brother’s, who lives in a crumbling colonial mansion. Over the Water is a taut and densely imagined encounter with Indonesian culture, the myth and superstition that pervades it and the tensions between East and West. PICK OF THE WEEK.’

  Cameron Woodhead, Sydney Morning Herald/The Age, 29 August 2014

  ‘The book has a strong aftertaste. Over the Water is for readers of literary fiction and travel narratives, and anyone planning a trip to Indonesia.’

  Viki Dun, Books + Publishing, May 2014

  ‘Told through the eyes of experience – the author has spent a lot of time in Indonesia – Over the Water also explores the essence of wanderlust and the way place and identity play off each other. His unflinching portrait of expat life in Indonesia is beautifully written and unsentimental.’

  Jane Reddy, The Age Traveller, July 19 2014

  ‘Over the Water Takes us north to Indonesia. Lane once worked as a teacher there and this experience shows in his evocation of the landscape and the expat’s perplexity at the layered indirectness of Javanese culture … Lane generates a disconcerting yet compelling atmosphere of estrangement in his writing.’

  Ed Wright, The Australian, December 6-7 2014

  William Lane lives in the Hunter Valley NSW, where he is raising three children. After completing an Honours degree in Australian literature, he travelled and worked in a number of different jobs. In addition to reading and writing, his interests include music and education. He is currently completing a doctorate on the Australian writer, Christina Stead. William has had several critical articles on Stead published in literary journals, and his short story ‘Children’s Hospital’ appeared in the anthology Things that are Found in Trees and Other Stories (2012). His first novel Over the Water was published to critical acclaim in 2014.