The Seventh Day

by Joy Dettman

‘The plague of mankind took him. That’s what he died of. Two of the bastards. Big wild trading bastards. Reckon I was just starting me growth at the time, a boy who would be a man. Reckon they was starving, so we fed the bastards what we had. Shoulda shot ’em.’ His eyes look away to that distant place, and he shudders, shakes his head. ‘Reckon they made Pa watch what they did to me, girl. Then they killed him.’ He looks at the clouds, clears his throat, spits. ‘Then I killed them. Fed ’em to my dogs then buried me pa right alongside old Thomas.’

  He studies the sky again, his old hand, knotted with veins, shades his eyes. ‘I learned the sky at my old pa’s side. Still know it, and them out there is rain clouds.’ He points to the clouds beyond the hills and I follow the line of his finger. ‘See ’em, girl. Be more rain before nightfall. It’ll wash this frekin bastard of a world clean again. The pity is, I won’t live to see it. That’s the pity.’ He spits to the left, and his fingers rub his open mouth as his eyes grow moist.

  I think he speaks the truth. He does not eat well, and each day he grows thinner. But it is as if he has grown calm with the coming of the rain, and perhaps with the growing of my belly, as if this new life has given him leave to lay down his old head and rest, as if within him he had carried the precious single seed of freedom which he had, by need, given to Granny. Now he believes that his son has passed it to me.

  His old head falls to the side, his jaw sags open, and I wonder how he sleeps so quickly, and in such uncomfortable situations. I look at the brown city overall; it hugs his bones. He has become as the hide of one of the slaughtered cows, tanned and stretched tight to dry. Also, he has the smell about him of that hide; he did not before much enjoy the chem-tub, now Lenny can not encourage him to use it at all.

  I leave him to his dreams and walk into the yard where I study the sky. I believe he is right about the clouds. To the south, old God Thunder is herding his dark clouds home to Morgan Hill.

  ‘Pa says we will see more rain before nightfall,’ I say as Lenny walks by.

  ‘Maybe,’ Lenny replies, and he takes up his bucket. I follow him to where the cow waits to give him her milk. We have two milkers, which we keep in a pen, close to the barn. The old bullock, the calves and a young bullock roam free, but do not roam far from their water container. Which is empty.

  Four times I fill the bucket and empty it into the stock trough.

  ‘Easy with that water, girl!’ Lenny yells.

  ‘They thirst.’ Poor things, they are more docile than the dogs and little larger, and the old bullock who carries the water for us surely deserves to drink it. I fetch another bucket. Since I do not have the cordial to still my feet and mind, I seek for things to do. I cut pumpkins with the axe and carry them to the pigs. I watch Lenny’s fingers at work with the milking, and he teaches me how it is squeezed from the older cow. I am exposed, but the searchers do not often fly here now, nor do they fly at all when the sun is hiding. The grey men’s machine is of another variety. It flies by night and leaves its rank stink behind it, as the grey men leave their city stink behind them. Still, I will not think of them today, for many days must pass before Lenny’s day calculator flashes red.

  (Excerpt from the New World Bible)

  By the year 78 of the New Beginning the storesheds were full, and also the new freezing stations, for old crops had been made new again and they grew strong.

  In season there was the red tomato and the green leaf beet, the squash, the potato and the carrot. And they gave much nourishment. And there were spices and condiments made with which to flavour the food.

  And in the city in the month of May there was much celebration, for in this month the new purification plant was opened and water made available for six hours each day, both in the a.m. and the p.m.

  And in the processing sheds and all places of labour, payment in promissory notes was issued to the youths who laboured. Thus recreation halls must by need be built for them, that the youthful labourers might receive good value for their earnings, and might also be guided in the wise use of their leisure hours, for book and newsprint were restricted to the higher order, as was the art of reading.

  Priests came to the entertainment halls and they entertained.

  The Chosen came to speak of the abundance they had created.

  Entertainers, trained in the old ways of pleasing, came to the halls. And they wore the faces of the female, and were clothed in garments of rich fabric, and they served as male or female, or as the youths desired.

  And the youthful labourers bowed down before the Chosen, who had created this abundance, and they showed their respect by kissing the Ring of Rule, worn on the left thumbs of the Chosen.

  But they mocked the Chosen when their backs were turned, and they made much of the left thumb and the raising of it to the backs of authority.

  THE HONEYDEW

  It is time to begin the storing of Pa’s pumpkins. Each year since the Great Ending, seeds have been saved from the previous crop. It is a good system, this growing of food, circular as are the pumpkins. The stock’s wastes feed the pumpkin, and their flesh and their milk and their eggs feed us, so that we, in turn, may carry water for stock and pumpkins.

  When harvested, we store our crop in the big barn, and what the rats do not gnaw into remains good until the next crop. With the dogs tied at the front of the barn and the cats encouraged to live in the rear, the rats prefer to find a safer place for their young. I believe there are many beneath the house, and I have seen them in the cellar. I would like to encourage a cat to live down there, but other than the black cat and the two kittens that continue to survive the dogs’ raids, I can not get near to them.

  When I was an infant we had one cat; I do not recall a second, but the cat did not mate with the dog. We now have eight cats and at times we feed them a little milk in the barn as encouragement for them to remain there to protect the pumpkins. Sometimes they leave us a rat, in repayment. The dogs enjoy it.

  Unlike the cats, our dogs will not breed, and they are not young now. Always in the years before these two, there was too much breeding, but since Granny killed the old male, there has been no more. It makes Pa sad to think that he chose the wrong pair to continue the line; still, I think these two will outlive him, so he will not miss them.

  This year, with the pumpkins, we have a smaller fruit which is good eaten fresh from the vine. Pa calls it honeydew. He found the seed in the barn the day after the book trader had come, and he cared for that small plant as a mother hen tending its chick. It has supplied us with ten fruit and already we have saved many seeds for the next planting.

  The flesh of the honeydew is sweet and pure. I love it well, and I am eating a slim slice when Lenny comes to stare into the pots bubbling on the stove. He cuts a slice of the fruit, bites into it.

  ‘Tastes like nothing I ever thought to put in my mouth,’ he says, his eyes watching my belly. The foetus grows daily in strength; the sign of its struggle is visible today beneath my blue flowered half-dress – which the chem-wash has near faded to white.

  ‘It tastes of a memory,’ I reply, licking honeydew juice from each finger. ‘When I place it in my mouth, I remember it.’

  Mid afternoon the roasting meat is done and I serve it accompanied by many of the grey men’s potatoes and our new pumpkin. I like pumpkin well when flavoured with a little of old Pa’s cheese. Lenny does not much like it, but he clears his plate then cuts more meat. The leg of pig was a large one. He will eat for a while. Pa is nodding on his chair.

  I clean my plate then take up my warm brown cloak and fasten it around me.

  The men make no attempt to still my wanderings; since the cordial has gone, there have been many changes. Lenny has repaired for me an old chair from the cellar so I might sit with them at the table. Sometimes we talk of many things. I find I like talk very much.

  As I leave the kitchen, Pa wakes, and thinks to convince me that he has not been asleep at all. ‘Rain before nightfall, girl. You hark my words,’ he says.r />
  ‘I respect your knowledge, Pa,’ I say, and I walk into the wind, which grows by the minute. The distant trees are moaning and tossing their branches as thunder rolls and lightning licks at the earth with its many tongues. For minutes I shelter on the rear verandah, watching the moving storm, then the decision is made and I am on my way. These storms spell freedom. Only on such days did Granny and I walk the property. Today I have such a great desire to walk free as we did then.

  I go first to the graveyard where I look a while at the green blades of grass growing beside the stones. Though this is a place of the dead, it is here that the first new green was born on Morgan land. I check it daily for flowers but find none. Today I see that on the tip of one long stalk there has begun a clustering. It may become a flower.

  Many of the old ones sleep here, though there are only five name stones, two bearing the Morgan name, one is a Logan, one a Calvert and the fifth is Tom Martin. One grave is marked by a small post. It wears the name of Verney. I search amongst the many graves for other names but they have worn away, and are marked now only with wooden cross or pole, or with small rocks. I do not know who sleeps beneath them, but I know where Granny sleeps, for she chose her own place. It is the mound beside the one which belongs to Aaron Morgan, who was the grandfather of her grandfather.

  Like Granny, he lived to a great age, and died when she was very small. He does not have a name stone, but Granny recalled his resting place, recalled the four strong poles which still stand tall. He was the son of Andrew Morgan who has a grey stone at the head of his grave, his name cut roughly into its worn surface.

  Granny’s mound is marked by an upright post, its bark removed and her name burned down its length with fire. I did this in the kitchen before her death – under her instruction, and with many heatings of a pointed iron with wooden handle that grew blue and red when placed long in the coals. The letters have remained strong, and I am pleased with them – except for the M. It was the first of them, and my hand was not so sure of the tool.

  Beside her post there grows a sturdy plant with broad leaves. I hope it is a dandelion. I would like such a flower to grow on this grave, but I believe the dandelion, as with the pumpkin, requires warmth for its growing season. We are now quickly moving into the months when the wind bites cold – and it surely bites me today, lifting my brown cloak high, tangling my hair. But how well I feel. My feet near fly. When last I walked this way I was a prisoner of the cordial and the grey men. Now my mind is free and I am free, and we walk together, my mind and me.

  I follow the fence which follows the track Pa spoke of. There is little left of it, only the near flat area between the fall of our land and the fall of the mountain. I try to imagine the vehicles which once travelled upon it, but they, as Morgan Road, have gone forever. Only lumps of black remain, buried beneath grey dust. I follow it until it leaves the fence behind and turns to follow the creek bed. I turn, too, and follow the creek bed, but in the opposite direction.

  It begins its journey in our hills, and though it is dry now, as it has been for all the years of my life, should regular rains return, as Pa says they will, this creek may fill again, and the fish and the frogs may come back from the dead.

  I have seen colourful fish in the books, and also the birds Pa spoke of. Like flowers, they are. I do not think I would wish to eat them, but gather them into a bouquet.

  How I love colour. How I would love to see this land coloured by birds – and flowers enough to pick by the armful, and weave garlands for my hair. The pumpkin flowers entrance me. As eagerly as Pa I had watched over the honeydew, waiting for its flowers, dreaming that perhaps they may be red or pink or blue. They were as the pumpkin, only smaller, and the colour of the dandelion. But once there were flowers of a pink and even blue. They are in the books.

  A pair of crows watch me as I walk by. I bow to them. ‘Hello, Granny. How did you like the rain, eh? What did you think of our honeydew?’

  One bright eye winks at me, and her raucous voice speaks. ‘Caw. Caw-caw.’

  The eagle and the crow have survived. It is only the beautiful that have been lost to this world. I wave a hand to the crow, or to Granny, as my sandals slap through the dust. They make a comforting, contented sound and for some distance I count their slap-slap-slaps as I look to the sky.

  The land is sinking fast into twilight when I hear laughter. Quickly I hide myself in the creek bed while I scan the land for movement, or searcher craft, my hand lifting the hood of my cape to cover my hair. I see dead trees, but no silver craft. Perhaps it was a bird call I heard. Granny had spoken once of a laughing bird. Or perhaps it was only the fence wires celebrating a new death.

  Much time has passed since I left the house. Lenny will be seeking me in the loft, as he did on an evening last week. He found me playing with the kittens, who have learned that dogs can not climb.

  It pleased him to find me there, far from Pa’s hearing; his manner was greatly altered as he handled a kitten so gently and spoke of the infant. A son, he said, Pa’s grandson. I take some comfort in the thought that this pleases him, as does the matings; it eases my feeling of guilt for I have played a cruel trick on Lenny. And did he not care for me with gentle hands, and did I not cling to him, sleep safer in his arms when I was ill from the cordial – or lack of it?

  My mind awandering, I walk along the creek bed until it is cut by the western fence. I can go no further. Oh, let water fill this creek and wash that city fence away. Lord, let it be. I throw a rock at the fence, then another as I wander beside it. The creek bed, now on the other side, wends its way through a small field of blacrap.

  I do not like that weed. The newsprint says it bears good fruit but Lenny fights it, so I have not seen a mature plant, thus have never seen its fruit. Soon I will see them I think, for here and there and everywhere the bastard things creep nearer to plant their young on Morgan land.

  I stoop, stare at the miniature plants, which are smaller than my fist and round, like heads with two wide flat hands that wrap, hold the head as if it aches. I laugh at it and hold my head in the same way. Then the hands rise, and I see they are truly hands, with thumb and four wide flat fingers. And there are veins in the hands; small hairs grow on these hands. Convinced that should I dig into the earth I will find its trunk and legs, I take up a stick and scrape at the base of it. The leaves fall to the side with a sigh.

  Such a funny little plant it is. I tickle its head with my stick, then a round mouth opens in its centre and it spits at me, hard and fast. Its spittle is black; it strikes my hand, sticks. Quickly I wipe it on my cloak, rub it in the dust, rub it hard. How it stings! Filthy weed. I hope we do not eat its fruit in the cans of fruitjell the grey men bring. Caring not if it is infant or adult, I think to kick out at it, but I do not want my toes spat upon for my hand stings so where the spit landed. I spit where it spat, and wipe it clean on my cloak, then I take up a heavy rock, smash the small head to a greasy grey pulp. It does not spit at me now! I find more rocks and crush all of it that I can find and I think it smells as does the grey men’s machine.

  On the other side of the fence, the huge leaf hands have risen high. I throw rocks at one large exposed head and I hear its threatening reply, like the sound of a rusty nail drawn from the roofing iron.

  This weed is as the potato, an unnatural thing, made by man, and surely of man’s own cells. I pick up another rock and send it after the first. This time it is not the cry of the blacrap I hear. Does it now laugh at me? I take up a larger rock to kill that laughter, then quickly drop it and crouch low. There is movement behind the blacrap. A large shape, and brown. It is laughing.

  Fast then I run back the way I had come where I hide low in the creek bed. I had forgotten the earlier laughter. Is it sowman, ghost or searcher? Too large to be searcher, perhaps a city man with his thick limbs and gun has come for me and I am out here, and alone. My heart thumps fast against the earth.

  Again I hear the laughter. My head and face covered by the hood
of my cloak, I peer from my hide and see movement again, but at a good distance. A shapeless form it is, and brown. Perhaps a sowman, but on the other side of the fence which today sings; I hug the earth, remaining as a rock until the beast disappears from my view.

  Black clouds now blanket the sky; my day is near its end and I must turn for home. I know this, but do not yet turn, but go forward. There is no good sense to my actions, other than my desire to identify this wanderer. I follow the fence, scuttling from rock to rock until I come upon a place from where I can look upon the sheer face Granny had named the falls. And they are there. Two of them. Brown clad, or brown hair-covered. The heads appear large, the body shapeless. Lord, I wish I could gain a closer view for they are using their hands, placing black stones into a large sack. Then I think their hands dance. And they touch. And there is grace and beauty in their movements.

  The newsprint says sowmen are made so they can not breed, and yet there are two, they work together. The newsprint says they have no minds to speak, yet they appear to . . . to communicate. And they laugh. How fine it must be to laugh with a companion.

  Perhaps there is much laughter and companionship in the city. I would like a female companion. Granny had known other females in the city. We had spoken of the tapestry and she had told me of the sisterhood of the females and the stitching of tapestry.

  I wait, hoping again to hear the laughter, hoping to gain a closer view of their garments. Then lightning cuts the threads of day from night, and thunder shakes the mountains and I cling close to the rock. And surely these blacrap wanderers are ghosts, for when I look again, they are gone and their sack of rocks gone.

  I am running fast when the windborne rain arrives. It cuts at my face and I hold my hood close and run, hold the fabric of my cloak above my ankles, for it wishes to hobble me. My city sandals were never made for such days as this. They sink in the dust that is quickly turning to sticky mire. How far I have wandered. Before I am close to shelter I grow weary with running and with my sandals sliding. In truth I am relieved to see Lenny approaching.