The Seventh Day

by Joy Dettman

  (Excerpt from the New World Bible)

  God had given unto the city his cordial, which cooled the throat and quelled all desire for rebellion. And in time peace and contentment returned to the city streets and to the plants and mills. And those labourers who had plotted against the Masters now laboured for their issue of the cordial.

  And those who had ranted and raved became silent so they might have their issue, and in this way the tide of escapees from the city was stilled and there came a time of much growth and industry.

  And it was found that the black weed could not be hurried to maturity for it did not tolerate cultivation and irrigation but rotted in the fields. Though in the saline sands beside the ocean and in the arid lands it grew strong. Thus it was found that the weed tolerated salt and grew strong in it. Machines were built to pump water from the oceans, and shallow reservoirs were filled with the rank water and the young plants of the black weed set to grow in it.

  And it was found that the weed sucked the salt from the water and grew fast, and that the water which was pumped from it when the roots of the crop had grown deep was pure, and required no purification for the eastern city and little for the west.

  And there was a rotation now, of the pumping and the planting and the harvesting of the weed. And in this way there came again to the city a time of plenty when water ran freely, and there was public bathing in the western city and the washing of the western streets and buildings.

  And the Chosen praised the black weed and named it Godsent. And in each year that passed a new use was found for the Godsent plant, and for all parts of it.

  But there were those amongst the labourers of the eastern city who came to the dividing fence at night to use their free issue of cordial for trade with the youths of the west, for the sons of the Chosen had fine paper and pens, and many books.

  But they desired the cordial.

  That which is denied is always desired.

  YESTERDAY

  For three days I return to that small room, and each time I carry lengths of wood, which I lay upon the floor for strength, and each day I go there, I stand longer at that door, straining to see, to hear the past, to know that which has gone before. I touch nothing. It is as if I fear to disturb this trapped time.

  On the third day I come in the early morning and the glow in this room is rare. I know it is for this light I have been waiting.

  Many of my paints and all of my painting boards are from the old ones, and some brushes. When Granny discovered my obsession with these ancient paints, she had shown me the white clay from the bottom of the dam, and the black soot from the stove, and we had mixed it with egg yolk and a little melted lard. We fashioned brushes, too, from green twigs and the hair of pigs, and from my hair, and the cows’ tails. All have been well used, as the painting boards have been well used. Since infancy I have made my pictures, though I smile now at some of the childish things, the worst of which I will cover today.

  The table in this room is a good solid thing; I think it a pity that we can not have it in the kitchen, but to move it would require Lenny’s strength, and should he step upon these fragile floors, there would be no more floors for me to walk on.

  There is much to see in the old cabinet, and a thing I believe to be a power machine of the old ones. It has a cord, thicker yet similar to that of our suction tool. I do not know its use, but it has the writing letters upon a flat section to the front of it. Perhaps it is a printing machine, as the ones in the city that make the newsprint.

  I make space in this room, but carefully. I move beds and their aged bedding, much of which falls apart in my hands, and some of which, when cleansed, will make cloths for Pa’s cheeses. I draw down the thick webs, and brush at the glass of the window, and sneeze, sneeze, until the window shakes in its frame. Some glass is intact, other panes have been replaced by old timber.

  How heavy the dust lies here. It is thick and in every corner. I think it will serve me better if I do not yet disturb this place more, for my sneezing will not stop. Outside the window the dogs bark at each sneeze and think it a fine game.

  Many of my paints have solidified in the tubes, others remain quite soft, but even those that are near dust, when mixed with egg yolk and the city spread, soon move freely across my board.

  For hours I stand in silence while my brush places the table and the cabinets just so. And the shape of the window, and the peak of the hill outside the window. Only then do I begin to mix a flesh tone.

  Time goes away to that other place. It takes sound with it. A hush surrounds me, stills my mind and frees my hand as layer by layer I build, allowing the spirits of the room to guide my brushes. Slowly I move back the years as I seek the ones who died in this house.

  Then suddenly one glint of sunlight, entering via a devious pathway, settles on the curved glass of the cabinet. It flits to my board and I trap it with the touch of a brush, catch it with one stroke of white. And my painting lives. It lives, and I enter into it.

  I feel no thirst in this place, no hunger, as for hours I communicate with the perfect child of my brush. I allowed the sunlight into her hair, and dust her with the shadow of a rich curtain, for surely in the time before, those faded rags upon the floor were curtains, hung long at this window.

  Then the sun and the day are gone, and the light in my room fades. But how my painting moves. This child’s world is alive with movement, and it holds me here. Today this painting must be done.

  I catch a chubby hand reaching out. ‘Come and play,’ she urges, and I smile with love of her as I touch her fingernails with white. I have mixed much white clay and not used enough of it, so I make her a white half-dress and touch it with lace, as from the rotting lace curtain.

  And it is gone from me and I gone from it. I am a void, a bucket emptied. I am a cloth, wrung out, squeezed dry, limp as the cobwebs that drape this room.

  I step away, admire it. It looks so well. I will not use this board again, but perhaps find an old frame that might fit it. I love this room and want it for myself. Oh, not the neglect and dust of it; I will wipe the dust away tomorrow; I will wipe the floor and move the rotted fabric. This room will live again because it is a very fine, dry room. And it is safe from the grey men. They will not think to come here, not think to find me hiding here.

  The following afternoon when I return to my painting, I find it brighter than I had thought it to be. The poor light of the previous evening has helped me to fill it with colour. And how it pleases me. My gaze rests on the child who stands beside the window with the sunlight glinting on her hair – hair that last night I thought to be the gold of Jonjan’s. Today it glows with red fire.

  I frown then, and for a moment chew at the paint stain on my finger. I have painted the wide-eyed infant from the newsprint, the infant they name Merith. But her smile, open, inviting, has become guarded. In her hand that yesterday held a ball, that yesterday reached out to me, inviting me to play, she now holds an apricot, and surely she has stolen it, for her mouth is wet with its juice.

  My head explodes then with memory. I swing around, bumping the table, stumbling past it. I grasp the door, fling its aching hinges wide then, careless of the floor, I run down the decaying passage to my own room, and inside my room, slam my door behind me and sit on my bed.

  My heartbeat is too wild, for I remember. I remember another child. And I remember the green of a garden and the flowers and the many males working in the garden. And I remember a male who held me, who picked for me an apricot.

  ‘Nate,’ I whisper. ‘Nate, of the city garden.’

  Oh honour her, Oh honour her,

  Oh sleep and dream of day.

  Oh honour her, Oh honour her,

  tomorrow you may play.

  It was his song, not my mother’s. Nate, a male. He sang that song to me.

  Lord. God. Am I freeborn, or as the Merith child, of the laboratories? Did I have a mother, or is it Nate’s hair that I remember, is it his hand that grew cold? I think I am
a creation of that bastard city, born of a plasti-womb, fed by the disabled. I think I am from an ovum, stored long in a freezer . . . as . . . as the legs of Lenny’s pig are stored in the freezer to grow hard as rock. I think I was given to Nate as reward, in recognition of his service to the Chosen, as Jonjan was given to his lying father, Jacob.

  Who am I? Lord. What am I?

  (Excerpt from the New World Bible)

  Thus there came a time when the searcher flew far, for the Godsent fuel had brought improvement to their craft which now might be brought to earth with great control at sundown, then impelled again into the sky when the sun rose. And the searchers knew no fear of the skies. And the distance covered by their wings grew great.

  But the searcher’s life span was of short duration.

  For there were those of them who flew too high. And there were those of them brought early to death of the flier’s sickness. And there were those who were lost to mountain and to storm.

  But there were those who gained great reward, for news of distant land and of the feral females who roamed there was much desired.

  And thus it was discovered that on the great plain to the north, there sheltered a small band of ferals from the time before. And it was learned that amongst this band were many females, both infant and adult.

  And it was learned that there were others who roamed to the south. And they hunted with spear and club. And it was learned that they had fire.

  And much was made of these reports and great commotion came to the city. There was extensive planning and preparation, for the distance and terrain was such that a ground force could not go there to retrieve the feral females.

  In time the copter flying machines were improved upon so they might carry within them abundant fuel. And a loading space was made in them.

  And they were sent forth to follow the searchers, whose small craft could not carry these groups into civilisation.

  And when the great machines were placed down upon the earth, both to the north of the city and to the south, it was found that the feral groups did not wish to be carried into civilisation.

  And the males were slaughtered. But the females were bound and carried.

  AARON J MORGAN

  I do not look at the likeness of the domed building of the city garden in the newsprint now, for I know I have walked there. I find also I think too much, of Nate and also of the grey men. And I think they planted me here, as a pumpkin seed is planted, planted me before my memories grew strong, for they wished me to grow strong and safe from the city plagues until I was of an age to breed, and I wonder if there are others such as me. Granny once told me that the females did not live to an old age in the city breeding stations, and certainly, the February female made only her twenty-sixth year. I think I am a part of the new breeding program. Yes, I think this is so.

  I speak to Lenny of the day I came, and I question him when he comes to my bed, but he has no answers for me and also does not wish to talk but to mate.

  ‘We didn’t find your mother, didn’t find no blood, no searcher craft, girl. If I told you once, I told you umpteen times. The old girl wanted you. Said you’d been sent to her to finish what she started. Didn’t want us searching.’

  ‘What was my clothing when I came? Was it of the city?’

  ‘It weren’t hides, girl. Fine stuff it was, and sandals on your little feet. Don’t rightly know more. We seen you the next day after you come – heard you the next day. All you could yell was “Mummy”.’

  Many days pass before I again make my feet enter that yesterday room. I look at my painting. Certainly I have painted the city child, and certainly it is well done. If it has made me remember the city and the taste of apricot on my tongue, this does not alter the pleasure I feel when I study that living child. For she lives, and with more vitality than is displayed in the newsprint.

  I like this room. Will I allow the archives of my mind to chase me away from it? If I too was a child of the city, does it alter now who I am? I am what Granny made me and she made me of this land. So I begin my cleaning of the room.

  Lord, there is much to discover here. There are unknown items and the known, the well known. I find many pencils, and some are long. I find books that I have never seen, books with pictures of laughing bears and childhood. Such sweet stories they contain, and on some of these books there are names. Emma Morgan. Aaron Morgan. Much of what I touch falls apart in my hands, but many of the books are still strong as the ones in Granny’s downstairs library.

  And in the rear of the cabinet, I come upon the childhood writings of Aaron Morgan for it has his name upon the paper. It is not as a book, but separate pages, which are slid into a heavy paper cover.

  December: School’s over and Mum says we’re not going to go back next year, because of the war and stuff so we have to do an assignment. Which isn’t fair. It’s holidays. We put the Christmas tree up last night and we’ve got a heap of presents under it. I told Emma to tell Mum what I wanted, but not to tell her I said to tell her. We’re going to the Logans tonight. They invited us for a Christmas party. I can’t stand Dallas Logan. She used to be all right but now all she does is prance around in tight shirts showing off her new boobs. She’s probably written ten pages of her diary already because she’s a know-all. So is her father. He told Dad he should lock the cows and stuff in the big barn. That’s why he built it, because of Mr Logan. There was a huge smoking fire way down the west hill today. We could see the smoke from here and even smell the stink. Dad said it was from burning Mr Robin’s cows which got it, so they all had to be shot and burned. Gran’s going on with her doom and gloom but she’s still sewing her aprons. As if refugees need aprons.

  January: Boring, boring, boring. Mum won’t even take us to town or anything, but she went to Sale, and she said she had to wash her shoes on disinfectant mats before she went into every shop. Anyway she went to the supermarkets and filled up the loading area of the utility with heaps of tinned stuff, because her stars said to prepare for changes during the time of the full moon or something and she always believes in the stars and always reads them before she reads the news. Her and Mrs Logan have been storing tinned stuff for ages. It will all go rotten. Anyway, at least she got us some new DVDs. Me and Emma are only allowed to watch them if I do some schoolwork. That’s why I’m doing this.

  Same day. It was on the news tonight that a huge plane full of illegals came down in Perth and when the soldiers got there, the illegals scattered, and like heaps of them got away so they can’t get quarantined. No one knows where they came from and they might have brought disease with them. Anyway Mum just threw her hands in the air and turned the television off.

  There are the February and March months which are of many complaints and talk of other boys, of Michael and Tommy and Mrs Martin. It is just a boy’s thing I have found, there is no story to it, and much in it I do not understand, nor can I find the words in Granny’s dictionary.

  And then there is April.

  April: They showed America on television last night and the disease is worse there, and now all the church leaders are like getting together and praying because they think it’s the end of the world because now someone has found a rogue comet with their telescope and they are calling it Retribution, and some people reckon it’s going to hit earth.

  Dad says we’ve got enough trouble already and it will miss earth by like millions of kilometres and if it gets too close then it’s going to get nuked by the Americans, and the bits will burn up when they hit our atmosphere. Except, America looks as if it’s gone mad. All the shops were shut and the hospitals were full and everyone you saw on the street was wearing a face mask.

  Anyway, Tommy and Jake come up here today for schoolwork with us and the Logan twits, and I said to Mrs Logan, who is sort of being our teacher, what Dad said about Retribution, then Tommy Martin said, ‘Then why is Mr Rowan digging your fall-out shelter?’ Then he said that my father told his father that it is so we can go to ground if the wors
t comes to the worst.

  Dad is always saying that, so I think it’s the truth what Tommy said. And Dad gets it from Gran, because she’s always saying it too. Like, when Mum asked Gran what she wanted for her last birthday, Gran said a fall-out shelter under the house, just in case the worst comes to the worst. She’s paying for it. Like she said to Dad, money in the bank isn’t going to be much good to any of us if the worst comes to the worst, but a deep hole in the ground just might be.

  It is strange, but these words still my reading. Perhaps this is where Granny’s obsession was born.

  Be a rabbit, girl. Find a hole and crawl into it.

  Had the child hands of Moni touched these pages? Had she sat, as I sit, on this fine chair which has support for my back? Had she spent much time in this room, reading the words of Aaron? Surely she had, for this room – and all the rooms – were strong in the time of her childhood. Is the answer to her rabbit riddle in the cellar? A disguised trapdoor, as in a book she read to me. Is it behind the trapdoor that leans against the wall?

  She had told me once of the trapdoor spider. We had found his hole near the barn.

  ‘See how well he hides, girl. He crawls in and pulls down his lid. We know what to look for, so we can find him, but his enemies can not.’

  I must go to the cellar, take a battery light and search. Tomorrow I will search, for I do not wish to leave Aaron’s writing now.

  May: Dad and Gran and Mum went to Traralgon and bought a wood stove. Gran paid for it because she wanted it. Since Dad is spending his money on the animals, she’s spending her money on the people, she says. Emma asked Dad if they were doing all this crazy stuff because the terrorists were coming to Australia, and Dad laughed and said it was too far for them to swim. Like Ha Ha Ha. Emma is scared because she saw it on the news tonight about what the terrorists did in London.