Grace

by Paul Lynch

  Then the voice says, you aren’t fevered, are you?

  She shakes her head.

  Sit up, then.

  She turns and sees a head without a body climbing down off a cart. Hands under her oxters hauling her up. The headless voice says, you’re just like an auld sack. Then he says, would this help you? She realizes now she is holding a piece of food. Old man hands filling her satchel with flitchings and some turf. It is old man Charlie, she thinks, rowed all this way in his boat on the snow across the fields of Ireland, and she wants to tell him it is time he rowed her back to Blackmountain, that a promise must be kept.

  The old man says, that’s all I have to share with you now. I’m keeping some for the others. Some use having all the turf in the world when you cannot eat it, though some do I’m told. I’m holding out, holding out and you should hold out too because this spell of weather is nearly over and then we’ll all be laughing. I’ll have to eat poor donkey here but I’ll get five penny from the skin dealer and I’ll be ar mhuin na muice. If you know of anyone else who needs fuel, tell them to find me on the road. Keep the heart strong, for death is closing a lot of mouths. Here are some matches.

  She nibbles the soft and it is apple and what taste, fights the sick feeling it gives her. Later she sees a woman tottering on the road. You must hide the apple from her, you must hide the apple also from that man lying in that ditch because if they see it they will take it off you. You must eat all this apple before Bart smells a look.

  Colly’s endless chatter is getting louder and louder. She wonders where he gets his strength from. Listen up, muc, it’s time you let me be in charge for a while.

  She takes the flitchings and turf out of her satchel and shows them to Bart. Look what I found, she says. There is no answer. She sparks the fire to life and watches it devour the flitchings and devour the turf and it is only when the fire has reached its brightest does she notice Bart is not lying where he was. That Bart has gotten himself up. She wonders how a man so sick could lift himself up like that. And then she knows. He has smelled the apple. He has gotten himself up to look for it. A sudden panic then at the thought of Bart finding her last bit of food until she remembers she has already eaten the apple. She calls Bart’s name but he does not answer. She stands up, studies each wall as if the very walls could pull such a trick, cannot figure it, for days he has been too sick to move and now suddenly he is better, he was probably hiding food the entire time, strong enough now to get up and walk. She goes to the door and calls for him but does not hear her own voice. She reaches for a greater shout but her voice is faint and is its own answer. Moving through dizziness and it is then that she finds what look like two tracks in the slush, two odd tracks like the stagger of a scarecrow that stepped into life and for sure they are his, and she follows and then she stops for she has not the energy to follow, how the footsteps disappear like dog tracks on the road.

  VI

  Crow

  Hee! Stir up! Stir up! Stir up, you little horselicker, look!

  Nothing all night but Colly’s titter and chatter, he has caught the delirium, she thinks. She turns from his tumult towards the wall, eyes closing into this sleepy-sleep and she can hear herself hack-coughing, hack-coughing and then easing into dark again. In this eyes-closed-now the black is comfort, all thought shut out, Mam a shadow waiting in a dream.

  Stir up! Stir up, I said!

  It is Colly now who is discomfort, Colly who is endless din, all night singing some song about the cock going to Rome, the cock going to Rome and now this new business, she would like to stir up if only to give him a clout, yank out some of his hair. A sneaky thought that says it might be best if he were—no you cannot think it, and anyhow it is a faraway thought, like shouting to somebody from the bottom of a hill and then they are gone and the thought slips to dark again.

  Stir up, you stupid bitch—the tree has brought dinner.

  She shuts her eyes and imagines Colly with a mouthful of bark.

  It is Colly who must rise. It is Colly who must go to the window to look. It is Colly who mutters, this is no way to live.

  It is Colly who starts laughing as if he were giving answer to somebody else’s joke. The little fucker, he says. She thinks she can hear Colly kick something. Where’s my cap? he shouts. When was the last time I had my cap? I’m going outside to trap this bastard. And fuck the cold.

  He is pointing out the window to the elm that stands stripped of its bark and upon it the shape of a crow. Even through the smudged glass he can see the gloss has gone from its feathers. It is a mighty airdog, all right, huge and probably old-as. How the wind has fed on its meat, left just sinew and bone, the bird nothing but stare and beak. He whispers at the glass, you’re the first airdog around here in a long while. He can taste the chew of crunch-bone, imagines sucking the bird’s scant juices. The airdog seems to be staring back at him, caw-woofs as if daring him out.

  He whispers to Grace but she doesn’t budge. He urges the latch to unbed without noise, that’s it, movement without rush, parting the cold air with a hunter’s body. How the world glitters as if the air were dreaming itself, for the winter now has run to melt-pools like eyes to watch this crow under a winging blue sky. He sees the bird’s black crown is ruffled with the same haircut Grace wore for a while. He ropes the bird to the tree with his sight, the crow upon a low branch spined with lastly snow. With a thought he kills the crow and can taste it with his eyes. Some old battler, he thinks, that has flown the ancient brawl that is bird against life and life against life and every airdog has its day but this will be your last. Hee!

  The crow flicks its feathers as if shrugging away some idle thought or perhaps, he thinks, it is wishing the worm out of the wintered earth if there are any worms left. So riddle me this, Joe Crow, what eats and gets eaten, isn’t that the way it always is?

  The bird jinks its head leftwards then flicks and shivers its wings for flight.

  Hold still, Joe Crow.

  He sucks with his fingers a stone from the slush and slowly, slower, unhinges for the throw.

  Fucker!

  The throw goes wide over the tree as if the crow were protected by some spell and perhaps that is so, he thinks, for isn’t it said that the elm provides a home for the pooka? Neither tree nor bird pays attention to his shouting, his aping of the crow with arm-wings, nor does the crow seem to notice the second stone that flies overhead, begins instead to nibble its feet, the bird half mad with hunger and cold by the looks of it.

  Of a sudden the crow takes skywards and traces a vanishing circle, then inks a slow and wavering line.

  Running now across some field in song-whisper.

  Stick of a crow,

  Prick of a crow,

  You’ll be pie tonight, don’t you know.

  The crow alights upon another elm and he throws another stone but the tree swallows it with a rattle of twigs and a gawping mouth as if asking for more. The airdog takes off with a great laughing caw-woof. He tries to hurt the tree with a kick. Follows the bird’s flight on foot, watches it alight on a field post with its hands priestly behind its back as if to study him better, this Colly creature on two tottering legs, strange roars bursting from his mouth, one wingless arm aloft with another stone.

  From a distance of thirty paces they eye each other and it occurs to Colly that the bird is not eyeing him at all, that he does not in fact exist in the world of this bird, that he might as well be hill or road, thinks of all the bird traps he has built and wonders how he has missed it, that it was the world that was the bird trap all along and how you didn’t think to know.

  Perhaps it is the dreaming light but the bird seems to rise without wing-flap as if lifted by string. He watches it wink into the high cage of blue, disappear into the far-off.

  He runs with his face to the sky. He bats through prickling hedgerow, this everything-wet of last snow. He is thinking of eggs, hoping this airdog will lead him to a nest. Imagines striking the crow thoroughly with a stone—bing!—watc
hing it drop from the sky. The way this crow disappears and reappears as it pleases. He thinks, this airdog for sure knows it is being followed so it might not be an airdog at all but the pooka, leading you to some secret place, a cave or chamber that holds all the world’s riches. Of a sudden he trips on some witchy root and lands on his hands in the slush. He picks himself up and continues at a dripping run, I’ll get you for this, pooka-bird. Running now towards white hills in the far-off and a goat path that takes him through some townland and only one or two villagers about and not one laugh out of them. Watching the flight of the bird describe some pattern or code, shaping each letter of an answer if only he could figure it.

  The day’s finish within sight but not this gone-again crow. Not one horse-cart or person on these roads now, the land changing shape, the fields and hills barrening to rock as if everything green were eaten.

  Joe Crow,

  Joe Crow,

  I will yank you from the sky, don’t you know.

  He tells himself he has moved past tiredness into new strength, wanders watching the sky and the trees for flickers of life, though the evening light plays its tricks, for sometimes you see Joe Crow where there is nothing at all. He cannot stop shouting at the gone-again crow, notices he is not shouting but crying, tells himself he is not crying but laughing.

  Fuck you, Joe Crow,

  Fuck you, Joe Crow,

  The day’s not over yet, don’t you know.

  He will find this bird again. Wishes he had a slingshot, for this bird is some Goliath, don’t you think, you would think it was the other way around but it is the crow that owns the sky while your heels are nailed to this rock. Of a sudden he hears it, sees it atop a lone hawthorn caw-woofing some curse. Now he knows that this bird has been waiting for him all along, the bird not bird at all but omen and how can you throw stones at an omen when it has come to tell you something? Fuck you, Joe Crow, the wintering is in and my belly is shriveled and this is the last of my strength.

  Joe Crow,

  Joe Crow,

  Thought it could survive the snow.

  But Joe Crow,

  Joe Crow,

  Did not count on Colly below.

  He knows it is dangerous running the dusk. Unseen things reach out to grab you, the branches of trees like wanty hands pulling at you. There is an oak shaped like some shouty old fellow and a nice seat beneath. He sits and watches his burning feet, the shadows puzzling around the tree into a single piece. Drifting into sleep and waking again to eye the dark and he thinks about the shape-shifting that birds can get up to. Perhaps if you fix your mind you can shape-shift also and why not? He thinks about being a hawk, wheeling sharply to dive upon Joe Crow, taking the bird in your claws, feeling the cold air’s rush. It is lonely business this chatting to yourself, talking to a crow that does not listen. In the tree overhead there is sudden wing-flap and he knows the crow is waiting for him. Wait until morning, he says, wait until I can get some strength up. He needs to piss and slowly stands up and goes against the tree, cannot figure why the piss goes all over his legs, it’s a bit too dark to see what you are doing anyhow.

  He juts out of sleep with the sudden thought that he is chasing a curse, that he should leave the crow alone and return to the house. He dreams of fire and dreams of Grace keeping him warm, wakes briefly to watch the night’s waters receding to light, closes his eyes and dreams he is Grace.

  Dawnlight bloods his eyes with warmth. In this half-hollow of sleep he hears the crow shout, wake up, wake up. Caw-woof! Caw-woof! He looks up and sees the crow in flickery through the tree. Caw-woof! Caw-woof! He unroots a stone and hides it in his hand, steps out in front of the crow and asks, hey, Joe Crow, do you think good and evil exist?

  The crow for a moment seems surprised, moves to another branch as if to consider the question from another vantage.

  Colly says, I always thought the world was a simple matter, that God was good and the devil was evil, but I’m just not sure anymore, all the things I have witnessed, all the things you must do to survive, you cannot be considered evil if you are just trying to keep yourself alive.

  The crow says, who is it told you the truth of things? It wasn’t the world that spoke—

  Colly sends a stone through the mouth of the tree and—bing!—the bird awfuls a flutter like some old screecher dropping her shawl that is a flutter of dropped feathers. He watches the bird sally awkwardly from tree to tree as if dying and he unroots another stone and gets right up to the bird, goes to throw, but the crow shoots airborne again. Now he knows this bird is not bird at all but the spirit of a dead person, wonders if it is someone he knows, can hear the crow caw-woofing again. Thinks, perhaps it is the devil himself having his fill of laughter.

  The crow leads him up some hill and he shouts at the bird as he climbs up it, each step chewing at his ankles, his teeth chattering some message.

  Joe Crow,

  Joe Crow,

  Is trying to kill you, don’t you know?

  He reaches the top of the hill but there is no crow, only the company of a ruined old tree and he asks the tree which way did the crow go but the tree points in every direction.

  This land of rock has returned to fields that spring with wet and he is shivering after walking so far in the wet-cold, cannot talk so much. His body a thousand aches of tiredness. He sits by a stone wall watching thought slump past him like a beggar. He begins to walk and must climb a fence and the world throws itself upside down and he is lying on his back staring at the sky, feels as if he is still falling, a trick of the hunger, and perhaps in some way it is the world that is falling and how could you be sure it is not? And the silence of everything now is the song of the earth, which is the song of great laughter kept to itself. Upwards and walking— solid ground of road and house shape and two well-fed dogs tense watching as if they want to eat— no I’ll eat them gobble them down and walk and sit here awhile and so this is what it is to be wintered and it isn’t as bad as you would have thought because your belly has gone away off on some journey and your mind wanders and everything falls away to peace and stillness and feelings in your skin aren’t feelings anymore and the cold is nothing and the earth will not wake from this winter so who cares. Into a trickle-water ditch where time creeps by on hand and foot, slowly through the puddles like an old man coughing gusts of wind, and he dreams Grace’s dreams and wonders why when he wakes, a day and a night pass by within the one shadow and he is still in this ditch, says to himself, do you know something, what, this is no way to live, stir up, stir up, I said, so out onto the road, clop sounds, foot sounds, the sound of your own hand held out like the dropping of huge weight. How to get— how to get back to— just to go— this road is bigger and familiar and might be the road home— hee! Hello donkey hello man hello woman don’t you walk away from me now— why is it dark when it wasn’t only a moment ago? Rainlicker! That’s it— I am not thirsty at all I can drink all the water I want— sitting down then getting up then sitting down again so this is what it is— others stepping past you slumpy auld ditch, hand out, hand out, my hand is speaking why don’t you listen, listen to my hand! Strange yowls as if people were suddenly animals whatinthe— lick the grass, why don’t you— notastegrass— walk some more you never know— trying-to-walking— just sitting, the same thing really— sound of— striking ears— the sound of digging in yes that field shovelwork man laughing somebody’s laugh ringing the air pure as struck stone now that you think about it— can think— dream here awhile— that’s another dead-cart gone past and see what is on it— you will be on it soon no I will not yes you will— and do you know why those men are digging they are digging at meat that grows in the ground— you are not dead yet— yes you are— no you are not— soon unless you do something you must— hee! Tell no one— tell no one who is to know, wait until night like those others you saw in the dark and now it is dark and crawl so yes I will— not crawling walking crawling careful careful in case somebody sees— hee!— shovel hands—hee!—shove
ling hands— who is that laughing sounds like Grace— Grace is dead— no she is not she is waiting in the house— it is a dog, a dog laughing— the dog is here for the meat also— how to bring this meat to Grace— it is not meat— it is meat— meat does not grow in the ground— is meat— isn’t— who will know anyhow— you won’t even know if you don’t think about it— dark and nobody is watching— to live is to die and to die is to live who said that— what silliness. Digging fingers meet the meat that lies under cloth— rip cloth— meat on the bone is meat in your hand will taste of mud and dead will it not and so what— the body won’t know what it’s eating, the body won’t care— nobody will know— nobody— nobody— nobody— nobody— nobody— and the taste of smell— gagsmell— whoa! Sicky feeling all over just the smell of it and— who is that— dog again— dog digger digging at the ground where did that other dog come from— more dogs also and dog growl— dogs want this meat for themselves don’t care about you— gagsmell— that was a rat are the rats not all eaten— don’t sick all over yourself the smell— there it is now bring to mouth— chew it off the bone will you— it is meat is it not? Why won’t it chew off strong to the bone even in death is that not a hand at the end of it— it is a hand— all the things it is and is not— and putting the taste into your mouth— sicky sicky gag-rot— just chew— tell yourself— tell yourself I said— taste chew— taste chew you want to live do you not— tell yourself— tell yourself I said— it is cow— yes it is cow— it is bull— yes it is bull— what else is it— it is sheep— yes it is sheep— it is hen— yes more taste— it is pig— yes it is pig— it is goat it is hare it is rabbit it is dog— no bother eating dog— it is cat it is bird it is cateatingbird— it is crow— it is that bastarding crow— it is rook it is magpie it is finch it is feathers it is the poacher’s grouse it is peacock you cannot eat peacock yes you can it is robin it is tit it is haha it is swallow haha— riddle me this how can you swallow a swallow— it is martin— martin who?— it is gull it is duck it is goose it is quail it is pigeon it is turkey it is dog again it is dogfish what I meant is catfish but dogfish will do— it is cod it is carp it is herring it is whalefish it is dolphin it is squid it is eel it is trout it is salmon without knowledge it is sea monster it is lobster it is shrimpfish it is mussel it is oyster it is seasnail it is periwinkle it is whelk it is pony it is donkey it is mule it is jenny it is guinea pig it is rat it is mouse it is shrew it is dormouse it is river rat it is camel it is lion it is monkey it is tiger it is elk it is— I can’t think of— wait now, don’t taste just eat— it is deer it is fawn it is grass it is leaves it is butter it is bread it is lumper it is stirabout it is porridge it is oats it is griffin it is dragon it is ratmouse it is seal it is otter it is stoat it is that other thing it is badger it is bat it is squirrel it is worm it is snail it is slug it is all the birds in Ireland that’s all of them in one— it is hedgehog it is the hoghedge it is the catbadger it is the finchotter it is the goosefish it is— don’t think— it is it is it is—